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HE FELT THAT HERS WOULD BE THE MORE READY ASSENT 

of the two.— Forrest House , Page 20 . 



■■■. - 









FORREST HOUSE 

As Published in the New York Weekly, Vol. 32, No. 12 

BY 

MARY J. HOLMES 



G. W. DILLINGHAM COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS NEW YORK 














X 







Copyright, 1877, 

BY 

STREET AND SMITH. 
Copyright, 1879, 

BY 

DANIEL HOLMES. 

Copyright, 1904, 

BY 

MARY J. HOLMES. 


Forrest House, 


CONTENTS 


aBiFTIB PAG5 

I. Two Letters. *. . 7 

II. Dr. Matthewson. 10 

m. The Mock Marriage . 19 

IV. The Forrest House. .. 27 

V. Beatrice Belknap. 37 

VI. Mother and Son. 44 

VII. Josephine. 56 

VIII. Eyerard .... r.. 61 

IX. The Result. 67 

X. Husband and Wife. 84 

XI. After Two Years. 90 

XII. Commencement. . 95 

XHI. The Reception. 100 

XIV. Two Months. , „ 108 

XV. The House of Cards Begins to Fall . Ill 

XVI. . The House of Cards Goes Down. .. 122 

XVII. The Next Day. .. 129 

XVIII. The Shadow of Death.135 

XIX. The Judge’s Will. . . ... 142 

XX. The Heiress. . . 150 

XXI. A Midnight Ride. 160 

XXI I. The New Life at Rothsay.. 166 

XXIH. Bee’s Family. 176 

XXIV. In the Summer... 196 

XXV. Mrs. Fleming’s Boarders. 203 

XXVI. Josephine’s Confidence . 212 

XXVII. Events of One Year at the Forrest House . 218 
XXVIII. Something Does Happen.;. 225 


[v] 





























Vi CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER 

XXIX. >Hrs. J. E. Forrest. 232 

XXX How Rossie Bore the News. 240 

XXXI. Mrs. Forrest’s Policy.243 

XXXII. What the People Said and Did-... . 252 

XXXIII. Eyerard Faces It. 254 

XXXIV. Eyerard ind Rossie. . 250 

XXXV Mr. and Mrs. J. E. Forrest. 263 

XXXVI. Rosamond’s Decision.273 

XXXVII. Matters are Adjusted. 277 

XXXVIII. “ Waiting and Watching for Me”. 283 

XXXIX. How the Tide Ebbed and Flowed in Roth- 

say. 288 

XL. Dr. Matthewson’s Game. 292 

XLI. How the Game was Played. 296 

XLn. Alas, Poor Rossie!. 318 

XLIII. The Letters.. 323 

XLIV. The New Heir. 327 

XLV. The New Reign at the Forrest House_ 336 

XLVI. The Letter from Austria. 343 

XLYII. Agnes Finds the Letter. . 348 

XLVHI. La Maison de Sante... 356 

XLIX. The Escape. . . 364 

L. Going Home. 370 

LI. Breaking the News at the Forrest House . 373 

Ln. Breaking the News to Eyerard .. . 377 

LIH. The Arrest. 383 

LTV. Telling the Truth to Rossie._ . _ 387 

LY. Conclusion. 389 


























THE FORREST HOUSE 


CHAPTER L 

TWO LETTERS. 



HE first, a small half-sheet, inclosed in a large 
thick envelope, and addressed in a childish, 
unformed hand to Mr. James Everard Forrest; 
Junior, Ellicottville, Berkshire County, Mas¬ 
sachusetts, with a request in the lower left- 
hand corner for the postmaster to forward immediately ; 
the second, a dainty little perfumed missive, with a 
fanciful monogram, directed in a plain round hand to J. 
Everard Forrest, Esq., Ellicottville, Mass., with the words 
“ in haste ” written in the corner. Both letters were in a 
hurry, and both found their way together to a brown¬ 
haired, brown-eyed, brown-faced young man, who sat 
under the shadow of the big maple tree on the Common 
in Ellicottville, lazily puffing his cigar and fanning him¬ 
self with his Panama hat, for the thermometer was 
ninety in the shade, and the hour 10 a. m. of a sultry 
July day. At first it was almost too much exertion to 
break the seals, and for a moment J. Everard Forrest, 
Jr., toyed with the smaller envelope of the two, and 
studied the handwriting. 

“I may as well see what Josey wants of me if 
haste,” he said at last, and breaking the seal, he read: 

“ Holburton, July 15. 

“Dear Red : You must come to-morrow on the fom 
o’clock train. Everything has gone at sixes and seveti& 

IT 








3 


TWO LETTERS. 


for just at the very last Mrs. Murdock, who has been 
dying for twenty years or more, must really die, and the 
Murdock boys can’t act, so you must take the character 
of the bridegroom in the play where I am to be the 
bride. You will Lave very little to say. You can learn 
it all in fifteen minutes, but you must come to-morrow so 
as to rehearse with us once at least. Now, don’t you 
dare fail. I shall meet you at the station. 

“ Yours lovingly, 

li Josephine Fleming. 

“ P. S.—Do you remember I wrote you in my last oi 
a Dr. Matthewson, who has been in towrn a few days 
stopping at the hotel ? He has consented to be the priest 
on condition that you are the bridegoom, so do not fail 
me. Again, with love, Joe.” 

“ And so this is my lady’s great haste,” the young 
man said, as he finished reading the letter. “ She wants 
me for her bridegoom, and I don’t know but Pm willing, 
so I guess I’ll have to go ; and now for Rossie’s inter¬ 
esting document, which must be ‘forwarded immediate¬ 
ly.’ I only wish it may prove to have money in it from 
the governor, for I am getting rather low.” 

So saying he took the otner letter and examined it 
carefully, while a smile broke over his face as he con¬ 
tinued : 

“Upon my word, Rossie did not mean this to go 
astray, and has written everything out in full, even to 
Massachusetts and Junior. ” Good for her. But how 
crooked ; why, that junior stands at an angle of several 
degrees above the Mr. Rossie ought to do better. She 
must be nearly thirteen ; but she’s a nice little girl, and 
I’ll see what she says.” 

What she said was as follows : 

“Forrest House, July 14 th. 

Mr. Everard Forrest : 

“ Dear Sir: —Nobody knows I am writing to you, but 
your mother has been worse for a few days, and keeps 
talking about you even in her sleep. She did not say 
send for you, but I thought if you knew how bad she 
was, you would perhaps come home for a part of your 
vacation. It will do her so much good to see you. I 


TWO LETTERS. 


9 


am very well and your father too. So no more at 
present. Yours respectfully, 

“ Rosamond Hastings. 

“ P. S.—Miss Beatrice Belknap has come home from 
New York, and had the typhoid fever, and lost every 
speck of her beautiful hair. You don’t know how 
funny she looks ! She offered me fifty dollars for mine 
to make her a wig, because it curls naturally, and is just 
her color, but 1 would not sell it for the world : would 
you ? Inclosed find ten dollars of my very own money, 
which I send you to come home with, thinking you 
might need it. Do not fail to come, will you? 

“ Rosamond.” 

Everard read this letter twice, and smoothed out the 
crisp ten-dollar bill, which was carefully wrapped in a 
separate bit of paper. It was not the first time he had 
received money in his sore need from the girl, for in a 
blank-book, which he always carried in his pocket, were 
several entries, as follows: “Jan. 2, from Rosamond 
Hastings, five dollars : March 4th, two dollars : June 
8th, one dollar,” and so on until the whole amount was 
more than twenty dollars, but never before had she sent 
him so large a sum as now, and there was a moisture in 
his eyes and his breath came heavily as he put it away 
in his purse, and said : 

“There never was so unselfish a creature as Rossi* 
Hastings. She is always thinking of somebody else. 
And I am a mean, contemptible dog to take her money 
as I do ; but then, I honestly intend to pay her back 
tenfold when I have something of my own.’’ 

Thus re-assuring himself, he put his purse in his pocket, 
and glancing again at Rossie’s letter his eye fell upon 
Miss Belknap’s name, and he laughed aloud as he said ; 

“ Poor bald Bee Belknap. She must look comicaL 
I can imagine how it hurts her pride. Buy Rossie’s hair* 
indeed ! I should think not, when that is her only beauty, 
if I except her eyes, which are too large for her thin 
face.; but that will round out in time, and Rossiemay be 
a beauty yet, though not like Josey ; no, never like Josey. 

And that brought the young man back to Miss 
Fleming’s letter, and its imperative request. Could he 
comply with it now ? Ought he not to go at ance to the 


10 


DR. MATTREW80K 


sick mother, who was missing him so sadly, and who Lad 
made all the happiness he had ever known at home? 
Duty said yes, but inclination drew him to Holburton 
and the fair Josephine, with whom he believed himself 
to be and with whom he was, perhaps, as much in love 
as any young man of twenty well can be. Perhaps Rossie 
had been unduly alarmed ; at all events, if his mother 
were so very sick, his father would write, of course, and 
on the whole he believed he should go to Holburton by 
the afternoon train, and then, perhaps, go home. 

And so the die was cast, and the young man walked to 
the telegraph office and sent across the wires to Miss 
Josephine Fleming the three words : “I will come.” 


CHAPTER II. 

DR. MATTHEWSON. 

E train from Ellicottville was late that after* 
noon. In fact, its habit was to be late, but on 
this particular day it was more than usually 
behind time, and the one stage which Holbur¬ 
ton boasted had waited more than half an 
hour at the little station of the out-of-the-way town which 
lies nestled among the Berkshire hills, just on the bound¬ 
ary line between the Empire State and Massachusetts. 
The day was hot even for midsummer, and the two fat, 
motherly matrons who sat in the depot alternately in¬ 
veighed against the heat and wiped their glowing faces, 
while they watched and discussed the young lady who, 
on the platform outside, was walking up and down, seem¬ 
ing wholly unconscious of their espionage. But it was 
only seeming, for she knew perfectly well that she was 
an object of curiosity and criticism, and more than once 
she paused in her walk and turning squarely round faced 
the two old ladies in order to give them a better view, 
and let them see just how many tucks, and ruffles and 
puffs there were in her new dress, worn that day for the 
first time. And a very pretty picture Josephine Fleming 










DR. MAT1HEW80N. 


11 


made standing there in the sunshine, looking so artless 
and innocent, as if no thought of herself had ever entered 
her mind. She was a pink-and-white blonde, with masses 
of golden hair rippling back from her forehead, and those 
dreamy blue eyes of which poets sing, and wt ;ch have in 
them a marvelous power to sway the sterner sex by that 
pleading, confiding expression, which makes a man very 
tender towards the helpless creature appealing so inno¬ 
cently to him for protection. 

The two old ladies did not like Josephine, though 
they admitted that she was very beautiful and stylish, in 
her blue muslin and white chip hat with the long feather 
drooping low behind, too pretty by far and too much of 
the fine lady, they said, for a daughter of the widow 
Roxie Fleming, who lived in the brown house on the 
Common, and sewed for a living when she had no 
boarders from the cit} T . And then, as the best of women 
will sometimes do. they picked the girl to pieces, and 
talked of the scandalous way she had of flirting with 
every man in town, of bar airs and indolence, which they 
called laziness, and wondered if it were true that poor 
old Agnes, her half-sister, made the young lady’s bed, 
and mended her clothes 9 and waited upon her generally 
as if she were a princess, and foiled, and worked, and 
went without herseif, that Josey might be clothed in 
dainty apparel, unbecoming to one in her rank of life. 
And then they wondered next if it were true, as had 
been rumored, that she was engaged to that young For¬ 
rest from Amherst College, who had boarded at the 
brown house for a few weeks the previous summer, and 
been there so often since. 

“A well-mannered chap as you would wish to see,” 
one of them said, “ with a civil word for high and low, 
and a face of which any mother might be proud ; 

only-” and here the speaker lowered her voice, as 

she continued : “ Only he does look a little fast, for no 
decent-bchaved boy of twenty ought to have such a 
tired, fagged look as he has, and they do say there were 
some great carousin’s at Widder Fleming’s last summer, 
which lasted up to midnight, and wine was carried in by 
Agnes, and hot coffee made as late as eleven, and if 
you’ll b’leve it ”—here the voice was a whisper—“ they 
Had a pack of cards, for Miss Murdock saw them with 


DR MA T THEWS OR 


12 


her own eyes, and young Forrest handled them as if 
used to the business.” 

“ Cards ! That settles it!” was repeated by the sec¬ 
ond woman, with a shake of the head, which indicated 
that she knew all she cared to know of Everard Forrest, 
but her friend, who was evidently better posted in the 
gossip of the town, went on to add that “ people said 
young Forrest was an only son, and that his father was 
very rich, and lived in a fine old place somewhere west 
or south, and had owned negroes in Kentucky before the 
war, and was a copperhead, and very close and proud, 
and kept colored help, and would not like it at all if he 
knew how his son was flirting with Josephine Fleming.” 

Then they talked of the expected entertainment at 
the Village Hall the following night, the proceeds of 
which were to go toward buying a fire-engine, which the 
people greatly needed. And Josephine was to figure in 
most everything, and they presumed she was now wail¬ 
ing for some chap to come on the train. 

For once they were right in their conjecture. She 
was waiting for Everard Forrest, and when the train 
oame in he stepped upon the platform looking so fresh, 
and cool, and handsome in his white linen suit that the 
ladies almost forgave Josephine for the gushing manner 
with which she greeted him, and carried him off toward 
home. She was so glad to see him, and her eyes looked 
at him so softly and tenderly, and she had so much to 
tell him, and was so excited with it all, and the brown 
house overgrown with hopvines was so cool and pleasant, 
and Agnes had such a tempting little supper prepared 
for him on the back piazza, that Everard felt supremely 
happy and content, and once, when nobody was looking 
on, kissed the blue-eyed fairy flitting so joyously around 
him. 

“ I say, Josey,” he said, when the tea-things had been 
removed, and he was lounging in his usual lazy attitude 
upon the door-step and smoking his cigar, “ it’s a heap 
nicer here than dov/n in that hot, close hall. Let’s not 
go to the rehearsal. I’d rather stay home.” 

. “But you can’t do it. You must go,” Josephine re¬ 
plied. “ You must rehearse and learn your part, though 
for to-night it doesn’t matter. You can go through the 
marriage ceremony well enough, can’t you ?” 


DR. MAT TREWS OK 


18 


“ Of course I can, and can say, ‘ I, Everard, take thee* 
Josie, to be my lawful wife,’ and, by Jove, I wouldn’t 
care if it was genuine. Suppose we get a priest, and 
make a real thing of it. I’m willing, if you are.” 

# There was a pretty blush on Josey’s cheek as she re* 
plied, “ What nonsense you are talking, and you not yet 
through college !” and then hurried him off to the 
hall, where the rehearsal was to take place. 

Here an unforeseen difficulty presented itself. Dr. 
Matthewson was not forthcoming in his character as 
priest. lie had gone out of town, and had not yet re¬ 
turned ; so another took his place in the marriage scene, 
where Everard was the bridegoom and Josephine the 
bride. The play was called “ The Mock Marriage,” and 
would be very effective with the full glamour of lights, 
and dress, and people on the ensuing night ; and Jose¬ 
phine declared herself satisfied with the rehearsal, and 
sanguine of success, especially as Dr. Matthewson 
appeared at the last moment apologizing for his tardi¬ 
ness, and assuring her of his intention to be present the 
next evening. 

He was a tall, powerfully-built man of thirty or more, 
whom many would call handsome, though there was a 
cruel, crafty look in his eyes, and in the smile which 
habitually played about his mouth. Still, he was very 
gentlemanly in his manner, and fascinating in his con¬ 
versation, for he had traveled much, and seen every¬ 
thing, and spoke both German and French as readily as 
his mother tongue With Miss Fleming he seemed to be 
on the most intimate terms, though this intimacy only 
dated from the time when she pleaded with him so 
prettily and successfully to take the place of the priest 
in “ The Mock Marriage,” where John Murdock was 
to have officiated. At first the doctor had objected, say¬ 
ing gallantly that he preferred to be the bridegroom, and 
asking who that favored individual was to be. 

“Mr. Everard Forrest, from Rothsay, Southern 
Ohio,” Josephine replied, with a conscious blush which 
told much to the experienced man of the world. 

“Forrest! Everard Forrest!” the doctor repeated 
thoughtfully, and the smile about his mouth was more 
perceptible. “ Seems to me I have heard that name be¬ 
fore. Where did you say he lived, and where is he now f* 


14 


DR, MATTHEWSON.' 


Josephine replied again that Mr. Forrest's home was 
in Rothsay, Ohio, at a grand old place called Forrest 
House ; that he was a student at Amherst, and was 
spending his summer vacation with a friend in Ellicott- 
ville. 

“ Yes, I understand,” the doctor rejoined, adding, after 
a, moment’s pause: “ I’ll be the priest; but suppose I had 
the power to marry you in earnest; what then ?” 

“ Oh, you wouldn’t. You must not. Everard is not 
through college, and it would be so very dreadful—and 
romantic, too,” the girl said, as she looked searchingly 
into the dark eyes meeting hers so steadily. 

Up to that time Dr. Matthewson had taken but little 
notice of Josephine, except to remark her exceeding 
beauty as a golden-haired blonde. With his knowledge 
of the world and ready discernment he had discovered 
that whatever position she held in Holburton was due to 
her beauty and piquancy, and firm resolve to be noticed, 
rather than to any blood, or money, or culture. She was 
not a lady, he knew, the first time he saw her in the little 
church, and, attracted by her face, watched her through 
the service, while she whispered, and laughed, and passed 
notes to the young men in front of her. Without any 
respect himself for religion or the church, he despised 
irreverence in others, and formed a tolerably accurate 
estimate of Josephine and her companions. After her 
interview with him, however, he became greatly interested 
in everything pertaining to her, and by a little adroit 
questioning learned all there was to be known of her, 
and, as is usual in such cases, more too. Her mother was 
poor, and crafty and designing, and very ambitious for 
her daughter’s future. That she took in sewing and 
kept boarders was nothing to her detriment in a 
village, where the people believed in honest labor, 
but that she traded on her daughter’s charms, and 
brought her up in utter idleness, while Agnes, the child 
of her husband’s first marriage, was made a very drudge 
and slave to the young beauty, was urged against her as 
a serious wrong, and, except as the keeper of a boarding¬ 
house, in which capacity she excelled, the Widow 
Fleming was not very highly esteemed in Holburton. 
All this Dr. Matthewson learned, and then he was told 
of young Forrest, a mere boy, two years younger 


DR. MA T THEWS ON. 


15 


than Josey, who had stopped with Mrs. Fleming & few 
weeks the previous summer, and for whom both Josey 
and the mother had, to use the landlady’s words, “ made 
a dead set,” and succeeded, too, it would seem, for if they 
were not engaged they ought to be, though it was too 
bad for the boy, and somebody ought to tell his father. 

Such was in substance the story told by the hostess 
of the Eagle to Dr. Matthew T son, who smiled serenely as 
he heard it, and stroked his silken mustache thought¬ 
fully, and then went down to call upon Miss Fleming, 
and judge for himself how well she was fitted to be the 
mistress of Forrest House. 

When Everard came and was introduced to him after 
the rehearsal, there was a singular expression in the eyes 
which scanned the young man so curiously ; but the 
doctor’s manners were perfect, and never had Everard 
been treated with more deference and respect than by 
this handsome stranger, who called upon him at Mrs. 
Fleming’s early in the morning, and in the course of an 
hour established himself on such terms of intimacy with 
the young man that he learned more of his family history 
than Josephine herself knew after an acquaintance of 
more than a year. Everard never could explain to him¬ 
self how he was led on naturally and easily to speak of 
his home in Rothsay, the grand old place of which he 
would be heir, as he was the only child. He did not 
know how much his father was worth, he said, as his 
fortune was estimated at various sums, but it didn’t do 
him much good, for the governor was close, and insisted 
upon knowing how every penny was spent. Consequently 
Everard, who was fast and expensive in his habits, was, 
as he expressed it, always hard up, and if his mother 
did not occasionally send him something unknown to his 
father he would be in desperate straits, for a fellow in 
college with the reputation of being rich must have 
money. 

Here Everard thought of Rosamond and what she 
had sent him, but he could not speak of that to this 
stranger, who sat smiling so sweetly upon him, and lead¬ 
ing him on step by step until at last Rossie’s name did 
drop from his lips, and was quickly caught up by Dr 
Matthewson. 


18 


DR. MATTHEWSON. 


“ Rossie !” lie repeated, in his low, purring tone 
“ Rossie ! Who is she ? Have you a sister ?” 

41 Oh, no. I told you I was an only child. Rossie is 
Rosamond Hastings, a Mttle girl whose mother was my 
mother’s most intimate .riend, They were school-girls 
together, and pledged themselves to stand by each other 
should either ever come to grief, as Mrs. Hastings did.” 

“Married unhappily, perhaps ?” the doctor suggested, 
and Everard replied : 

“ Yes ; married a man much older than herself, who 
abused her so shamefully that she left him at last, and 
sought refuge with my mother. Fortunately this Hast- 
mgs died soon after, so she was freed from him ; but she 
had another terror in the shape of his son, the child of a 
former marriage, who annoyed her dreadfully.” 

“ How could he ?” the doctor asked, and Everard 
replied : 

“ I hardly know. I believe, though, it was about 
some house or piece of land, of which Mrs. Hastings 
held the deed for Rossie, and this John thought he 
ought to share it, at least, and seemed to think it a for¬ 
tune, when in fact it proved to be worth only two 
thousand dollars, which is all Rosamond has of her 
own.” 

“ Perhaps he did not know how little there was, and 
thought it unjust for his half-sister to have all his father 
left, and he nothing,” the doctor said, and it never once 
occurred to Everard to wonder how he knew that Mr. 
Hastings left all to his daughter, and nothing to his son. 

He was wholly unsuspicious, and went on : 

“ Possibly ; at all events he worried his stepmother 
into hysterics by coming there one day in winter, and 
demanding first the deed or will, and second his sister, 
whom he said his father gave to his charge. But I 
settled him !” 

“ Yes ?” the doctor said, interrogatively, and Everard 
continued : 

44 Father was gone, and this wretch, who must have 
been in liquor, was bullying my mother, and declaring 
he would go to the room where Mrs. Hastings was faint¬ 
ing for fear of him, when I came in from riding, and 
just bade him begone ; and when he said to me sneer- 
mgly, 4 Oh, little David, what do you think you can do 


DR. MATTHEW80N. 


11 


with the giant, you have no sling?’ 1 hit him a cut 
with my riding-whip which made him wince with pain, 
and I followed up the blows till he left the house vowing 
vengeance on me for the insult offered him.” 

“ And since then ?” the doctor asked. 

“ Since then I have never seen him. After Mrs. 
Hastings died he wrote an impertinent letter to father 
asking the guardianship of his sister, but we had prom¬ 
ised her mother solemnly never to let her fall into his 
hands or under his influence, and father wrote him such 
a letter as settled him ; at least, we have never heard 
from him since, and that is eight years ago. Nor should 
I know him either, for it was dark, and he all muffled 
ap.” 

“And have you no fear of him, that he may yet be 
revenged ? People like him do not usually take cowhid- 
ings quietly,” the doctor asked. 

“ No, I’ve no fear of him, for what can he do to me? 
Besides, I should not wonder if he were dead. We have 
never heard of him since that letter to father,” was 
Everard’s reply, and after a moment his companion con¬ 
tinued : 

“And this girl,—is she pretty and bright, and how 
old is she now ?” 

“Rossie must be thirteen,” Everard said, “ and the 
very nicest girl in the world, but as to being pretty, she 
is too thin for that, though she has splendid eyes, large 
and brilliant, and black as midnight, and what is pecu¬ 
liar for such eyes, her hair, which ripples all over her 
head, is a rich chestnut brown, with a tinge of gold upon 
it when seen in the sunlight. Her hair is her great 
beauty, and I should not be surprised if she grew to be 
quite a handsome woman.” 

“ Very likely ;—excuse me, Mr. Forrest,” and the doc¬ 
tor spoke respectfully, nay, deferentially, “ excuse me if 
I appear too familiar. We have talked together so free¬ 
ly that you do not seem a stranger, and friendships, you 
know, are not always measured by time.” 

Everard bowed, and, foolish boy that he was, felt 
flattered by this giant of a man, who went on : 

“Possibly this little Rossie may some day be the 
daughter of the house in earnest.” 

“ What do you mean ? that my father will adopt he? 


18 


DR. MATTHEWSON. 


regularly ?” Everard asked, as he lifted his clear, honest 
eyes inquiringly to the face of his companion, who, find* 
ing that in dealing with a frank, open nature like Ever* 
ard’s he must speak out plain, replied : 

“ I mean, perhaps you will marry her.” 

“ I marry Rossie ! Absurd ! Why, I would as soon 
think of marrying my sister,” and Everard laughed 
merrily at the idea. 

“Such a thing is possible,” returned the doctor, 
“though your father might object on the score of family, 
if that brother is such a scamp. I imagine he is rather 
proud ; your father, I mean,—not that brother.” 

“ Rossie’s family is well enough for anything 1 know 
to the contrary,” said Everard. “ Father would not ob¬ 
ject to that, though he is infernally proud. He is a 
South Carolinian, born in Charleston, and boasts of 
Southern blood and Southern aristocracy, while mother 
is a Bostonian, of the bluest dye, and both would think 
the Queen of England honored to have a daughter 
marry their son. Nothing would put father in such a 
passion as for me to make what he thought a mesalli¬ 
ance” 

“ Yes, I see, and yet-” 

The doctor did not finish the sentence, but looked 
instead down into the garden where Josephine was flit¬ 
ting among the flowers. 

“ Miss Fleming is a very beautiful girl,” the doctor 
said, at last, and Everard responded heartily : 

“Yes, the handsomest I ever saw.” 

“And rumor says you two are very fond of each 
other,” was the doctor’s next remark, which brought a 
blush like that of a young girl to Everard’s cheek, but 
elicited no reply, for there was beginning to dawn upon his 
mind a suspicion that his inmost secrets were being wrung 
from him by this smooth-tongued stranger, w T ho, quick 
to detect every fluctuation of thought and feeling in 
another, saw he had gone far enough, and having learned 
all he cared to know, he arose to go, and after a good- 
morning to Everard and a few soft speeches to Josephine, 
walked away and left the pair alone. 




THE MOCK MARRIAGE. 


1 » 


CHAPTER III. 



THE MOCK MARRIAGE. 

HE long hall, or rather ball-rocm, of the old 
Eagle tavern was crowded to its utmost 
capacity, for the entertainment had been 
talked of for a long time, and as the proceeds 
were to help buy a fire-engine, the whole town 
was interested, and the whole town was there. First on 
the programme came tableaux and charades, interspersed 
with music from the glee club, and music from the 
Ellieott band, and then there was a great hush of expec¬ 
tation and eager anticipation, for the gem of the perform¬ 
ance was reserved for the last. 

Behind the scenes, in the little ante-rooms where the 
dressing, and powdering, and masking, and jesting were 
all going on promiscuously, Josephine Fleming was in a 
state of great excitement, but hers was a face and com¬ 
plexion which never looked red or tired. She was, 
perhaps, a shade paler than her wont, and her eyes were 
brighter and bluer as she stood before the little two-foot 
glass, giving the last touches to her bridal toilet. 

And never was real bride more transcendently lovely 
than Josephine Fleming when she stood at last ready 
and waiting to be called, in her fleecy tarlatan, with heT 
iong vail sweeping back from her face, and showing like 
a silver net upon her golden hair. And Everard, in his 
dark, boyish beauty, looked worthy of the bride, as he 
bent over her and whispered something in her ear which 
had reference to a future day when this they were doing 
ill jest should be done in sober earnest. For a moment 
they were alone. Dr. Matthewson had managed to 
clear the little room, and now he came to them and 
said : 

. “ I feel I shall be doing wrong to let this go any 
further without telling you that I have a right to make 
the marriage lawful, if you say so. A few years ago I was 
a clergyman in good and regular standing in the Methodist 
Episcopal Church at Clarence, in the western part of 








THE MOCK MARRIAGE. 


SC 

this State. 1 am not in regular and good standing now 
the world, the flesh, and the devil, especially the latter } 
got the upper hand of me, but I still have the power to 
marry you fast and strong. You two are engaged, I 
hear. Suppose, for the fun of it, we make this marriage 
real? What do you say?” 

He was looking at Everard, but he spoke to Josephine, 
feeling that hers would be the more ready assent of the 
two. She was standing with her arm linked in Everard’s, 
and at Dr. Matthewson’s words she lifted her blue eyes 
coyly to her lover’s face, and said : 

“Wouldn’t that be capital, and shouldn’t we steal a 
march on everybody?” 

She waited for him to speak, but his answer did not 
come at once. It is true he had said something of this 
very nature to her only the night before, but now, when 
it came to him as something which might be if he chose, 
he started as if he had been stung, and the color faded 
from his lips, which quivered as he' said, with an effort 
to smile : 

“I’d like it vastly, only you see I am not through 
college, and I should be expelled at once. Then fathei 
never would forgive me. He’d disinherit me, sure.” 

“ Hardly so bad as that, I think,” spoke the soothing 
voice of the doctor, while one of Josephine’s hands 
found its way to Everard’s, which it pressed softly, as she 
said: 

“We can keep it a secret, you know, till you are 
through college, and it would be such fun.” 

Half an hour before Everard had gone with the doc¬ 
tor to the bar and taken a glass of wine, which was 
beginning to affect his brain and cloud his better judg¬ 
ment, while Josephine was still looking at him with those 
great, dreamy, pleading eyes, which always affected him 
so strangely. She was very beautiful, and he loved her 
with all the strength of his boyish, passionate nature. 
So it is not strange that the thought of possessing her 
years sooner than he had dared to hope made his young 
blood stir with ecstasy, even though he knew it was 
wrong. lie was like the bird in the toiler’s snare, and 
he stood irresolute, trying to stammer out he hardly 
knew what, except that it had some reference to his 
father, and mother, and Rossie, for he thought of her in 


THE MOCK MARRIAGE> 


SI 


that hour of his temptation, and wondered how ae could 
face her with that secret on his soul. 

“ They are growing impatient. Don’t you hear them 
stamping ? What are you waiting for ?” came from the 
manager of the play, as he put his head into the room, 
while a prolonged and deafening call greeted their ears 
from the expectant audience. 

“Yes, let’s go,” Josephine said, “and pray forget 
that I almost asked you to marry me and you refused. I 
should not have done it only it is Leap-year, you know, 
and I have a right ; but it was all in joke, of course. I 
didn’t mean it. Don’t think I did, Everard.” 

Oh, how soft and beautiful were the eyes swimming 
in tears and lifted so pleadingly to Everard’s face ! It 
was more than mortal man could do to withstand them, 
and Everard went down before them body and soul. His 
father’s bitter anger,—so sure to follow, his mother’s 
grief and disappointment in her son, and Rossie’s child¬ 
ish surprise were all forgotten, or, if remembered, weighed 
as nought compared with this lovely creature with the 
golden hair and eyes of blue, looking so sweetly and ten¬ 
derly at him. 

“I’ll do it, by George !” he said, and the hot blood 
came surging back to his face. “ It will be the richest 
kind of a lark. Tie as tight as you please. I am more 
than willing.” 

He was very much excited, and Josephine was trem 
bling like a leaf. Only Dr. Matthewson was calm as he 
asked : “Do you really mean it, and will you stand to 
it ?” 

“ Are you ever coming ?” came angrily this time from 
the manager, who was losing all patience. 

“ Yes, I mean it, and will stand to it,” Everard said, 
and so went on to his fate. 

There was a cheer, followed by a deep hush, when the 
curtain was withdrawn, disclosing the bridal party upon 
the stage, fitted up to represent a modern drawing-room, 
with groups of gayly-dressed people standing together, and 
in their midst Everard and Josephine, she radiantly beau¬ 
tiful, with a look of exultation on her face, but a tumult 
of conflicting emotions in her heart, as she wondered if 
Dr. Matthewson had told the truth, and was authorized 
to marry her really, and if Everard would stand to it or 


12 


THE MOCK MARRIAGE. 


repudiate the act; he , with a face white now as ashes, 
and a voice which was husky in its tone when, to the 
question : “ Dost thou take this woman for thy wedded 
wife ? Dost thou promise to love her, and cherish her, 
both in sickness and in health, and, forsaking all others, 
keep thee only unto her ?” he answered : “ I do,” while 
b chill like the touch of death ran through every nerve 
and made him icy cold. 

It was not the lark he thought it was going to be ; it 
was like some dreadful nightmare, and he could not at 
all realize what he was doing or saying. Even Jose¬ 
phine’s voice, when she too said, “ I will,” sounded very 
far away, as did Matthewson’s concluding words : “ Ac¬ 
cording to the authority vested in me I pronounce you 
man and wife. What God hath joined together let no 
man put asunder.” 

How real it seemed to the breathless audience—so real 
that Agnes Fleming, sitting far back in the hall, in her 
faded muslin and old-fashioned bonnet, involuntarily 
rose to her feet and raised her hand with a deprecating 
gesture as if to forbid the bans. But her mother pulled 
her down to her seat, and in a low whisper bade her 
keep quiet. 

And so the play went on, and was over at last ; the 
crowd dispersed, and the tired actors, sleepy and cross, 
gathered up the paraphernalia scattered everywhere, and 
went to their several homes. Everard and Josephine 
were the last to leave, for she had so much to say, and 
so much to see to, that it was after twelve, and the 
summer moon was high in the heavens ere they started 
at last for home, accompanied by the young man with 
whom Everard was staying in Ellicottville, and who had 
come down to the play. 

It had been arranged that young Stafford should pass 
the night at Mrs. Fleming’s, and when the party reached 
the cottage they found a supper prepared for them, of 
which hot coffee and sherry formed a part, and under 
the combined effects of the two Everard’s spirits began 
to- rise, and when at last he said good-night to Josephine 
and went with his friend to his room, he was much like 
himself, and felt that it would not be a very bad state of 
affairs, after all, if it should prove that Josephine was 
really his wife. It would only be expediting matters a 


THE MOCK MARRIAGE 


28 


little, and the secret would be so romantic and unusual. 
Still, lie was conscious of a feeling of unrest and dis¬ 
inclination to talk, and declared his intention of plung¬ 
ing into bed at once. 

“Perhaps you’d better read this first,” Stafford said, 
handing him a telegram. “It came this morning, and I 
brought it with me, but would not give it to you till 
after the play, for fear it might contain bad news.” 

Now young Stafford knew perfectly well the nature 
of the telegram, lor he had been in the office when 
it came, and decided not to deliver it until the play was 
over. It was from Everard’s father, and read as follows : 

“ To J. Everard Forrest, Jr. —Your mother is very 
sick. Come immediately. J. E. Forrest.” 

“ Oh, Stafford,” and Everard’s voice was like the cry 
of a wounded child, “ why didn’t you give me this 
before. There was a train left at five o’clock. I could 
have taken it, and saved-” 

He did not finish the sentence, for he could not put 
into words the great horror of impending evil which had 
fallen upon him with the receipt of that telegram. In¬ 
deed, he could not define to himself the nature of his 
feelings. He only knew that he wished he had gone 
home in answer to Rossie’s summons, instead of coming 
,o Holburton. And in this he meant no disloyalty to 
Josephine, nor attributed any blame to her ; and when, 
next morning, after a troubled night, in which no sleep 
visited his weary eyes, he met her at the breakfast-table 
looking as bright, and fresh, and pretty as if she too, had 
not kept a sleepless vigil, he experienced a delicious 
feeling of ownership in her, and for a few moments felt 
willing to defy 7 the whole world, if by so doing he could 
claim her as his, then and there. He told her of the 
telegram, and said he must take the first train west, 
which left in about two hours, and Josephine’s eyes 
instantly" filled with tears, as she said : 

“ I am so sorry for you, and I hope your mother will 
recover. I have always wished to see her so much. 
Would you mind telling her of me, and giving my love 
to her ?” 

This was after breakfast, when they 7 stood together 

under the vine-wreathed porch, each with a thought of 


TEE MOCK MARRIAGE. 


24 


last night’s ceremony in their minds, and each loth to 
speak of it first. Stafford had gone to the hotel to settle 
his bill of the previous day and make some inquiries 
about the connection of the trains, and thus the family 
were alone when Dr. Matthewson appeared, wearing his 
blandest smile, and addressing Josephine as Mrs. Forrest, 
and asking her how she found herself after the play. 

At the sound of that name given to Josephine as if 
she had a right to it, a scarlet flame spread over Everard’s 
face, and he felt the old horror and dread of the night 
creeping over him again. Now was the time to know 
the worst or the best,—whichever way he chose to put 
it,—and as calmly as possible under the circumstances, he 
turned to Dr. Matthewson and asked : 

“Were you in earnest in what you said last night ? 
Had you a right to marry us, and is Josephine my wife?’ 1 

It was the first time he had put it into words, and as 
if the very name of wife made her dearer to him, he 
wound his arm around her and waited the doctor’s answer, 
which came promptly and decidedly. 

“Most assuredly she is your lawful wife ! You took 
her with your full consent, knowing I could marry you, 
and I have brought your certificate, which I suppose the 
lady will hold.” 

lie handed a neatly-folded paper to Josephine, who, 
with Everard 1 >oking over her shoulder, read to the 
effect that on the evening of July 17th, in the Village 
Hall at Holburton, the Rev. John Matthewson married 
J. Everard Forrest, Jr. of Rothsay, Ohio, to Miss Jose¬ 
phine Fleming of Holburton. 

“It is all right, I believe, and only needs the names 
of your mother and sister as witnesses to make it valid, 
in case the marriage is ever contested,” Matthewson said, 
and this time he looked pitilessly at Everard, who was 
staring blankly at the paper in Josephine’s hands, and if 
it had been his death-warrant he was reading he could 
scarcely have been paler. 

Something in his manner must have communicated 
itself to Josephine, for in real or feigned distress she 
burst into tears, and laying her head on his arm, sobbed 
out: 

“Oh, Everard, you are not sorry I am your wife I 
If you are, I shall wish I was dead I” 


THE MOCK MARRIAGE. 


25 


£f Ko, no, Josey, not sorry you are my wife,” he said, “ I 
could not be that; only I am so young, and have two years 
more in college,-and if this thing were known I should 
be expelled, and father would never forgive me, or let 
me have a dollar again; so, you see it is ft deuced scrape 
after all.” 

He was as near crying as he well could be and not 
actually give way, and Matthewson was regarding him 
with a cool, exultant expression in his cruel eyes, when 
Mrs. Fleming appeared, asking what it meant. 

Very briefly Hr. Matthewson explained the matter 
to her, and laying his hand on Everard’sarm said, laugh¬ 
ingly : 

“I have the honor of presenting to you your son, who, 
I believe, acknowledges your claim upon him.” 

There was a gleam of triumph in Mrs. Fleming’s 
eyes, but she affected to be astonished and indignant that 
her daughter should have lent herself to an act which 
Mr. Forrest was perhaps already sorry for. 

“ You are mistaken,” Everard said, and his young 
manhood asserted itself in Josephine’s defense. “ Your 
daughter w 7 as not more to blame than myself. We both 
knew what we were doing, and I am not sorry, except 
for the trouble in which it would involve me if it were 
known at once that I was married.” 

“ It need not be known, except to ourselves,” Mrs. 
Fleming answered, quickly. “What is done cannot be 
undone, but we can make the best of it, and I promise 
that the secret shall be kept as long as you like. Josey 
will remain with me as she is, and you will return to col¬ 
lege and graduate as if last night had never been. Then, 
when you are in a position to claim your wife you can do 
so, and acknowledge it to your father.” 

She settled it rapidly and easily, and Everard felt 
his spirits rise thus to have some one think and decide 
for him. It was not distasteful to know that Josey was 
his, and he smoothed caressingly the bowed head, still 
resting on his arm, where Josey had laid it. It would be 
just like living a romance all the time, and the interviews 
they might occasionally have would be all the sweeter 
because of the secrecy. After all, it w T as a pretty nice 
lark, and he felt a great deal better, and watched Mrs, 
Fleming and Agnes as they signed their names to the 

% 


35 


THE MOCK MARRIAGE. 


ceitificate, and noticed how the latter trembled and how 
pale she was as, with what seemed to him a look of pity 
for him, she left the room and went back to her dish* 
washing in the kitchen. 

Everard had spent some weeks in Mrs. Fleming’s 
family as a boarder, and had visited there occasionally, 
but he had never noticed or thought particularly of 
Agnes, except, indeed, as the household drudge, who was 
always busy from morning till night, washing, ironing, 
baking, dusting, with her sleeves rolled up and her broad 
check apron tied around her waist. She had a limp in 
her left foot, and a weakness in her left arm which gave 
her a helpless, peculiar appearance ; and the impression 
he had of her, if any, was that she was unfortunate in 
mind as well as body, fit only to minister to others as she 
always seemed to be doing. She had never addressed a 
word to him without being first spoken to, and he was 
greatly surprised when, after Dr. Matthewson was gone, 
and Mrs. Fleming and Josephine had for a moment left 
him alone in the room, she came to him and putting her 
hand on his, said in a whisper, “ Did you really mean it, 
or was it an accident? a joke? and do you want to get 
out of it ? because, if you do, now is the time. Say you 
didn’t mean it! Say you won’t stand it, and there surely 
TO ili be some way out. I can help,—weak as I am. It is 
a pity, and you so young.” 

She was looking fixedly at him, and he saw that her 
eyes were soft, and dark, and sad in their expression, as 
if for them there was no brightness or sunshine in all the 
wide world,—nothing but the never-ending dish-washing 
in the kitchen, or serving in the parlor. But there was 
another expression in those sad eyes, a look of truth and 
honesty, which made him feel intuitively that she was a 
person to be trusted even to the death, and had he felt 
any misgivings then, he would have told her so unhesi¬ 
tatingly ; but he had none, and he answered her : 

“ I do not wish to get out of it, Agnes, I am satisfied; 
only it must be a secret for a long, long time. Remem¬ 
ber that, and your promise not to tell.” 

“Yes, I’ll remember, and may God help you !” she 
answered, as she turned away, leaving him to wonder at 
her manner, which puzzled and troubled him a little. 
But it surely had nothing to do with Josephine, who 


THE FORREST HOUSE. 


27 


came to him just before he left for the train, and said so 
charmingly and tearfully : 

“ I am so mortified and ashamed when I remember 
now eagerly I seemed to respond to Dr. Matthewson’a 
proposition that we be married in earnest. You must 
have thought me so forward and bold ; but, believe me, 
I did not mean it, or consider what I was saying; so 
when you are gone don’t think of me as a brazen-faced 
creature who asked you to marry her, will you ?” 

What answer could he give her except to assure her 
that he esteemed her as everything lovely and good, and 
he believed that he did when at last he said good-by, and 
left her kissing her hand to him as she stood in the door¬ 
way under the spreading hop vine, the summer sunshine 
falling in flecks upon her golden hair, and her blue eyes 
full of tears. So he saw her last, and this was the pic¬ 
ture he took with him as he sped away to the westward 
toward his home, and which helped to stifle his judgment 
and reason whenever they protested against what he had 
done, but it could not quite smother the fear and dread 
at his heart when he reflected wdiat the consequences of 
this rash marriage would be should his father find it out 


CHAPTER IV. 

THE FORREST HOUSE. 

where it was located is not my purpose to 
1, except that it was in the southern part 
Ohio, in one of those pretty little towns 
iich skirt the river, and that from the bluff 
which it stood you could look across the 
water into the green fields and fertile plains of the fair 
State of Kentucky. 

It was a large, rambling house of dark gray stone, 
with double piazza on the front and river side, and huge 
chimneys, with old-time fire-places, where cheery wood 
fires burned always when the wind was chill. There was 

the usual wide hall of the South with doors opening 







28 


THE FORREST HOUSE. 


front and rear, and on one side the broad oak staircase 
and square landing two-thirds of the way up, where stood 
the tall, old-fashmned clock, which had ticked there for 
fifty years, and struck the hour when the first Forrest, 
the father of the present proprietor, brought home his 
bride, a fair Southern girl, who drooped and pined 
in her Northern home until her husband took her 
back to her native city, Charleston, where she died when 
her boy was born. This boy, the father of our hero, waa 
christened James Everard, in the grim old church, St. 
Michael’s, and the years of his boyhood were passed in 
Charleston, except on the few occasions when he visited hia 
father, who lived at Forrest House without other compan¬ 
ionship than his horses and dogs, and the bevy of black 
servants he had brought from the South. 

When James was nearly twenty-one his father died, 
and then the house was closed until the heir was married, 
and came to it with a sweet, pale-faced Bostonian, of 
rare culture and refinement, who introduced into her new 
home many of the fashions and comforts of New Eng¬ 
land, and made the house very attractive to the educated 
families in the neighborhood. 

Between the lady and her husband, however, there 
was this point of difference ;—while she would, if pos¬ 
sible, have changed, and improved, and modernized the 
house, he clung to everything savoring of the past, and 
though liberal in his expenditures where his table, and 
wines, and horses, and servants were concerned, he held 
& tight purse-string when it came to what he called lux¬ 
uries of any kind. What had been good enough for his 
father was good enough for him, he said, when his wife 
proposed new furniture for the rooms which looked so 
bare and cheerless. Matting and oil-cloth were better 
than carpets for his muddy boots and muddier dogs, 
while curtains and shades were nuisances and only served 
to keep out the light of heaven. There were blinds at all 
the windows, and if his wife wished for anything more 
she could hang up her shawl or apron when she was dress¬ 
ing and afraid of being seen. 

He did, however, give her five hundred dollars to do 
with as she pleased, and with that and her exquisite tasta 
and Yankee ingenuity, she transformed a few of the dark, 
musty old rooms into the coziest, prettiest apartments 


THE FORREST HOUSE. 


29 


imaginable, and, with the exception of absolately neces 
eary repairs and supplies, that was the last, so far as ex 
penditures for furniture were concerned. 

As the house had been when James Everard, Jr., wa& 
born, so it was now when he was twenty years old. Bui 
what it lacked in its interior adornments was more that 
made up in the grounds, which covered a space of three 
or four acres, and were beautiful in the extreme. 

Here the judge lavished his money without stint, and 
people came from miles around to see the place, which 
was at its best that warm July morning when, tired and 
worn with his rapid journey, Everard entered the high¬ 
way gate, and walked up the road to the house, under 
the tall maples which formed an arch over his head. 

It was very still about the house, and two or three 
dogs lay in the sunshine asleep on the piazza. At the 
sound of footsteps they awoke, and recognizing theii 
young master, ran toward him, with a bark of welcome. 

The windows of his mother’s room were open, and at 
the bark of the dogs a girlish face was visible for an in¬ 
stant, then disappeared from view, and Rosamond Hast¬ 
ings came out to meet him, looking very fresh and 
sweet in her short gingham dress and white apron, with 
her rippling hair tied, with a blue ribbon, and falling 
down her back. 

' “ Oh, Mr. Everard,” she cried, as she gave him hei 
hand, “ I am so glad you have come. Your mother has 
wanted you so much. She is a little better this morn¬ 
ing, and asleep just now ; so come in here and rest. 
You are tired, and worn, and pale. Are you sick ?” and 
she looked anxiously into the handsome face, where 
even she saw a change, for the shadow of his secret was 
there, haunting every moment of his life. 

“ Ho ; I’m just used up, and so hungry,” he said, as 
he followed her into the cool family room, looking out 
upon the river, which she had made bright with flowers 
in expectation of his coming. 

“ Hungry, are you ?” she said. “ I’m so glad, for 
there’s the fattest little chicken waiting to be broiled for 
you, and we have such splendid black and white rasp¬ 
berries. I’m going to pick them now, while you wash 
and brush yourself. You will find everything ready in 
your room, with some curtains, and tidies on the chairs 


80 


THE F0RRE8T HOUSE . 


I did it myself, hoping you’d find it pleasant, and stay 
home all the vacation, even if your mother gets better 
she is so happy to have you here. Will you go up 
now ?” 

fie went to the room which had always been his,—a 
large, airy chamber, which, with nothing modern or 
expensive in it, looked cool and pretty, with its clean 
matting, snowy bed, fresh muslin curtains, and new blue 
and white tidies on the high-backed chairs, all showing 
Rossie’s handiwork. Rossie had been in Miss Beatrice 
Belknap’s lovely room furnished with blue, and thought 
it a little heaven, and tried her best to make Mr. 
Everard’s a blue room too, though she had nothing to do 
ft with except the tidies, and toilet set, and lambrequins 
made of plain white muslin bordered with strips of blue 
cambric. The material for this she had bought with 
her own allowance, at the cost of some personal sacrifice ; 
and when it was all done, and the two large blue vases 
were filled with flowers and placed upon the mantel, she 
felt that it was almost equal to Miss Belknap’s, and that 
Mr. Everard, as she always called him, was sure to like 
it. And he did like it, and breathed more freely, as if he 
were in a purer, more wholesome atmosphere than that 
of the brown house in far-off Holburton, where he had 
left his secret and his wife. It came to him with a 
sudden wrench of pain in his quiet room,—the difference 
between Josephine and all his early associates and sur¬ 
roundings. She was not like anything at the Forrest 
Rouse, though she was marvelously beautiful and fair,— 
so much fairer than little Rossie, whose white cape 
bonnet he could see flitting among the bushes in the 
garden, where in the hot sunshine she soiled and pricked 
her fingers gathering berries for him. He had a photo¬ 
graph of Josephine, and he took it out and looked at the 
great blue eyes and fair, blonde face, which seemed to 
smile on him, and saying to himself, “ She is very 
lovely,” went down to the sitting-room, where Rossie 
brought him his breakfast. 

It was so hot in the dining-room, she said, and Aunt 
Axie was so out of sorts this morning, that she was 
going to serve his breakfast there in the bay window, 
where the breeze came cool from the river. So she 
brought in the tray of dishes, and creamed his coffee s 


THE FORREST HOUSE. 


31 


and sugared his berries, and carved his chicken, as if he 
had been a prince, and she his lawful slave. 

At Mrs. Fleming’s he had also been treated like a 
prince, but there it was lame Agnes who served, with hei 
sleeves rolled up, and Josephine had acted the part of the 
fine lady, and never to his recollection had she soiled her 
hands with household work of any kind. How soft and 
white they were,—while Rossie’s hands were thin and 
tanned from exposure to the sun, and stained and 
scratched, with a rag around one thumb which a cruel 
thorn had torn ; but what deft, nimble hands they were, 
nevertheless, and how gladly they waited upon this 
tired, indolent young man, who took it as a matter of 
course, for had not Rossie Hastings ministered to him 
since she was old enough to hunt up his missing cap, and 
bring him the book he was reading. Now, as she flitted 
about, urging him to eat, she talked to him incessantly, 
asking if he had received her letter and its contents 
safely,—it it was very pleasant at Ellicottville with his 
friend Stafford, and if,—she did not finish that question, 
but her large black eyes, clear as crystal, looked anx¬ 
iously at him, and he knew what she meant. 

“No, Rossie,” he said, laughingly, “I do not owe 
a dollar to anybody, except your dear little self, and that 
I mean to pay with compound interest; and I haven’t 
been in a single scrape,—that is, not a very bad one, 
since I went back and a flush crept to the roots of his 
hair as he wondered what Rosamond would think if she 
knew just the scrape he was in. 

And why should she not know? Why didn’t he tell 
her, and have her help him keep the secret tormenting 
him so sorely ? He knew he could trust her, for he had 
done so many a time and she had not betrayed him, but 
stood bravely between him and his irascible father, who, 
forgetting that he once was young, was sometimes hard 
and severe with his wayward son. Yes, he would tell 
Rossie, and so make a friend for Josephine, but before 
he had decided how to begin, Rosamond said : 

“ I’m so glad you are doing better, for-” here she 

hesitated and colored painfully, while Everard said : 

“ Well, go on. What is it? Do you mean the gov¬ 
ernor rides a high horse on account of my misdemean 
ors ?” 


32 


THE FORREST HOUSE . 


“ Yes, Mr. Everard, just that. He is dreadful wher 
you write for more money, which lie says you squander 
on cigars, and fast horses, and fine clothes, and girls y 
he actually said girls, but my,—your mother told him she 
knew you were not the kind of person to think of girls, 
and you so young ; absurd !” 

And Rossie pursed up her little mouth as if it were 
a perfectly preposterous idea for Everard Forrest to be 
thinking of the girls ! 

The young man laughed a low, musical laugh, and 
replied, “I don’t know about that. I should say it was 
just in my line. There are ever so many pretty girls in 
fellicottville and Holburton, and one of them is so very 
beautiful that I’m half tempted to run away with and 
marry her. What would you think of that, Rossie ?” 

For a moment the matter-of-fact Rossie looked at 
him curiously, and then replied : 

“ I should think you crazy, and you not through 
college. I believe your father would disinherit you, and 
serve you right, too.” 

“ And you, Rossie ; wouldn’t you stand by me and 
help me if I got into such a muss ?” 

“Never !” and Rossie spoke with all the decision and 
dignity of thirty. “ It would kill your mother, too. I 
sometimes think she means you for Miss Belknap; she is 
so handsome this summer !” 

“Without her hair?” Everard asked, and Rossie 
replied, “ Yes, without her hair. She has a wig, but 
does not quite like it. She means to get another.” 

“And she offered fifty dollars for your hair !” Ever¬ 
ard continued, stroking with his hand the chestnut 
brown tresses flowing down Rossie’s back. 

“Yes, she did; but I could not part with my hair 
even to oblige her. Of course I should give it to her, 
not sell it, but I can’t spare it.” 

What an unselfish child she was, Everard thought, 
and yet she was so unlike the golden-haired Josephine, 
wha would make fun of such a plain, simple, unformed 
girl as Rosamond, and call her green and awkward and 
countrified, and perhaps she was all these, but she was 
so good, and pure, and truthful that he felt abashed be¬ 
fore her and shrank from the earnest, truthfu eyes that 


THE FORREST HOUSE. 




rested so proudly on him, lest they should read more than 
he cared to have them. 

Outside, in the hail, there was the sound of a hervy 
step, and the next moment there appeared in the door 
a tall, heavily-built man of fifty, with iron-gray hair and 
keen, restless eyes, which always seemed on the alert to 
discover something hidden, and drag it to the light. 
Judge Forrest meant to be a just man, but, like many 
just men, when the justice is not tempered with mercy, 
he was harsh and hard with those who did not come up 
to his standard of integrity, and seldom made allow¬ 
ances for one’s youth or inexperience, or the peculiar 
temptations which might have assailed them. Though 
rooked up to as the great man of the town, he was far less 
popular with the people of Rotbsay than his scamp of a 
son, with whom they thought him unnecessarily strict 
and close. It was well known that there was generally 
trouble between them and always on the money question, 
for Everard was a spendthrift, and scattered his dollars 
right and left with a reckless generosity and thoughtless¬ 
ness, while the judge was the reverse, and gave out every 
cent not absolutely needed with an unwillingness which 
amounted to actual stinginess. And now he stood at 
the door, tall, grand-looking, and cold as an icicle, and 
his first greeting was : 

“ I thought I should tiaek you by the tobacco smoke ; 
they told me you were here. How do you do, sir?” 

It was strange the effect that voice had upon Ever- 
ard, who, from an indolent, v,are-for-nothing, easy-going 
youth was transformed into a circumspect, dignified 
young man, who rose at once, and, taking his father’s 
hand, said that he was very well, nad come on the morn¬ 
ing train from Cleveland, and had started as soon as he 
could after receiving the telegram. 

“ It must have been delayed, then. You ought to 
have had it Wednesday morning,” Judge Forrest replied: 
and blushing like a girl Everard said that it did reach 
Ellicottville Wednesday, but he was in Holburton, just 
over the line in New York. 

“ And what were you doing at Holburton ?” the 
father asked, always suspicious of some new trick or 
escapade for which he would have to pay. 

“ I was invited there to an entertainment,” Everard 

V 


84 


THE FORREST HOUSE. 


said, growing still redder and more co nfused. u Yon 
know 1 boarded there a few weeks last summer, and have 
acquaintances, so I went down the night before, and 
Stafford came the next day and brought the telegram, 
but did not tell me till the play was over and we were 
in our room; then it was too late, but I took the first 
train in the morning. I hope my delay has not made 
mother worse. I am very sorry, sir.” 

He had made his explanation, which his father ac¬ 
cepted without a suspicion of the chasm bridged over in 
silence. 

“ You have seen your mother, of course,” was his 
next remark, and, still apologetically, nay, almost ab¬ 
jectly, for Everard was terribly afraid of his father, he 
replied, “ She was sleeping when I came, and Rossie 
thought I’d better not disturb her, but have my breakfast 
first. I have finished now, and will go to her at once if 
she is awake.” 

He had put Rossie in the gap, knowing that she was 
a tower of strength between himself and his father. 
During the years she had been in the family Rossie had 
become very dear to the cold, stern judge, who was 
kinder and gentler to her than to any living being, 
except, indeed, his dying wife, to whom he was, in his 
way, sincerely attached. 

“ Yes, very right and proper that you should have 
your breakfast first, and not disturb her. Rossie, see if 
she is now awake,” he said, and in his voice there was a 
kindliness which Everard was quick to note, and which 
made his pulse beat more naturally, while there suddenly 
woke within him an intense desire to stand well with his 
father, between whom and himself there had been so 
much variance. 

For Josephine’s sake he must have his father’s good 
opinion, or he was ruined, and though it cost him a tre¬ 
mendous effort to do so, the moment Rosamond left the 
room, he said : “Father, I want to tell you now, because 
I think you will be glad to know, that I’ve come home 
and left no debt, however small, for you to pay. And I 
mean to do better. I really do, father, and quit my fast 
associates, and study so hard that when I am graduated 
you and mother will be proud of me.” 

The flushed, eager face, on which, young as it wa& 


THE FORREST HOUSE. 


35 

there were marks of revels and dissipation, w r as very 
handsome and winning, and the dark eyes were moist 
with tears as the boy finished his confession, which told 
visibly upon the father. 

“ Yes, yes, my son. I’m glad; I’m glad; but your 
poor mother will not be here when you graduate. She is 
going from us fast.” 

And under cover of the dying mother’s name, the 
judge vailed his own emotions of softening toward 
Everard, whose heart was lighter and happier than it had 
been since that night when Matthewson’s voice had said, 
“ I pronounce you man and wife.” And he would be a 
man worthy of the wife, and his mother should live to 
see it, and to see Josephine, too, and love her as a daugh¬ 
ter. She was not dying; she must not die, when he 
needed and loved her so much, he thought, as, at a word 
from Rosamond, he went to the sick room where his 
mother lay. What a sweet, dainty little woman she was, 
with such a lovely expression on the exquisitely chiseled 
features, and how the soft brown eyes, so like the son’s, 
brightened at the sight of her boy, who did not shrink 
from her as he did from his father. She knew all his 
faults, and that under them there was a noble, manly 
nature, and she loved him so much. 

“ Oh, Everard ! ” she cried, “ I am so glad you have 
come. I feared once I should never see you again.” 

He had his arms around her, and was kissing her 
white face, which, for the moment, glowed with what 
seemed to be the hue of health, and so misled him into 
thinking her better than she was. 

“ Now that I have come, mother, you will be well 
again,” he said, hanging fondly over her, and looking 
into the dear face which had never worn a frown for 
him. 

“No, Everard,” she said, as her wasted fingers 
threaded his luxuriant hair, “ I shall never be well again. 
It’s only now a matter of time ; a few days or weeks at 
the most, and I shall be gone from here forever, to that 
better home, where I pray Heaven you will one day meet 
me. Hush, hush, my child ; don’t cry like that,” she 
added, soothingly, for, struck with the expression on her 
white, pinched face, from which all the color had faded, 
and which told him the truth more forcibly than she had 


THE FORREST HOUSE. 


8$ 

done, Everard had felt suddenly that his mother was 
going from him, and nothing in all the wide world could 
ever fill her place. 

Laying his head upon her pillow ha sobbed a few 
moments like a child, while the memory of all the errors 
of his past life, all his waywardness and folly, rushed 
into his mind like a mountain, crushing him with its mag* 
nitude. But he was going to do better ; he had told his 
father so ; he would tell it to his mother ; and God would 
not let her die, but give her back to him as a kind of re¬ 
ward for his reformation. So he reasoned, and with the 
hopefulness of youth grew calm, and could listen to what 
his mother was saying to him. She was asking him of 
kis visit in Ellieottville, and if he had found it pleasant 
there, just as Rossie had done, and he told her of the 
play in Holburton, but for which he should have been 
•with her sooner, and told her of his complete reform, ho 
called it, although it had but just begun. He had ab¬ 
jured forever all his w T ild associates ; he had kept out of 
debt ; he was going to study and win the first honors of 
his class ; he was going to be a man worthy of such a 
mother. And she, the mother, listening rapturously, 
believed it all ; that is, believed in the noble man he 
would one day be, though she knew there would be many 
a slip, many a backward step, but in the end he would 
conquer, and from the realms of bliss she might, perhaps, 
be permitted to look down and see him all she hoped him 
to be. Over and above all he said to her was a thought 
of Josephine. His mother ought to know of her, and he 
must tell her, but not in the first moments of meeting. 
He would wait till to-morrow, and then make a clean 
breast of it. 

He wrote to Josephine that night just a few brief 
lines, to tell her of his safe arrival home and of his 
mother’s illness, more serious than he feared. 

ft My dear little wife,” he began. “ It seems so funny 
to call you wife, and I cannot yet quite realize that you 
are mine, but I suppose it is true. I reached home this 
morning quite overcome with the long, dusty ride ; found 
mother worse than I expected. Josie, I am afraid mother 
is going to die, and then what shall I do, and who will 
stand between me and father. I mean to tell her ol 


BEA THICK BELKNAP. 


81 


you, for 1 think it will not be right .o let her die in 
ignorance of what I have done. I hope ycu are well 
Please write to me very soon. With kind regards tc* 
your mother and Agnes, 

“ Your loving husband, 

“ J. Evebabd Fokrest.” 

It was not just the style of letter which young and 
ardent husbands usually write to their brides ; nor, in 
fact, such as Everard had been in the habit of writing to 
Josephine, and the great difference struck him as he 
read over his rather stiff note, and mentally compared it 
with the gushing effusions of other times. 

“ By Jove,” he said, “ I’m afraid she will think I 
have fallen off amazingly, but I haven’t. I’m only tired 
to-night. To-morrow I’ll send her a regular love-letter 
after I have told mother and thus reasoning to him 
self, he folded the letter and directed it to— 

“Miss Josephine Fleming, Holburton, N. Y.” 


CHAPTER Y. 

BEATRICE BELKNAP. 

HAT afternoon Miss Beatrice Belknap drove 
her pretty black ponies up the avenue to the 
Forrest House. Miss Beatrice, or Bee, as she 
was familiarly called by those who knew her 
best, was an orphan and an heiress, and a belle 
and a beauty, and twenty-one, and a distant relative of Mrs. 
Forrest, whom she called Cousin Mary. People said she 
was a little fast and a little peculiar in her ways of think¬ 
ing and acting, but charged it all to the French educa¬ 
tion she had received in Paris, where she had lived from 
the time she was six until she was eighteen, when, ac¬ 
cording to her father’s will, she came into possession of 
her large fortune, and returning to America came to 
Rothsay, her old home, and brought with her all hei 






BEATRICE BELKNAP. 


58 

dash and style, and originality of thought and character 
and the Rothsayites received her gladly, and were very 
proud and fond of her, for there was about the bright 
girl a sweet graciousness of manner which won all hearts, 
even though they knew she was bored with their quieo 
town and humdrum manner of living, and that at their 
backs she laughed at their dress, and talk, and walk, and 
sometimes, I am sorry to say it, laughed at their prayers 
too, especially when good old Deacon Read or Sistei 
Baker took the lead in the little chapel on the corner, 
where Bee was occasionally to be seen. Bee had no 
preference for any church unless it were St. Peter’s, in 
Rome, or St. Eustace, in Paris, where the music was so 
fine and some of the young pjriests so handsome. So she 
went where she listed, kneeling one Sunday in the square 
pew at St. John’s, where her father had worshiped before 
her, and where she had been baptized, and the Sunday 
following patronizing the sect called the Nazarites, be¬ 
cause, as she expressed it, “ she liked the excitement and 
liked to hear them holler .” And once the daring girl 
had “ hollered ” herself and had the “ power,” and Sister 
Baker had rejoiced over the new convert who, she said, 
“carried with her weight and measure !” but when it was 
whispered about that the whole was done for effect, just 
to see what they would say, the Nazarites gave poor Bee 
the go-by, and prayed for her as that wicked trifler until 
it came to the building of their new church, when Bee, 
who was a natural carpenter, and liked nothing better 
than lath, and plaster, and rubbish, made the cause her 
own, and talked, and consulted, and paced the ground 
and drew a plan herself, which they finally adopted, and 
gave them a thousand dollars besides. Then they for¬ 
gave the pretty sinner, who had so much good in her 
after all, and Bee and Sister Rhoda Ann Baker were the 
very best of friends, and more than once Rhoda Ann’s 
plain Nazarite bonnet had been seen in the little phaeton 
side by side with Bee’s stylish Paris hat, on which the 
good woman scarcely dared to look lest it should move 
her from her serene height of plainness and humility. 

In spite of her faults, Beatrice was very popular, and 
nowhere was she more welcome than at the Forrest 
House, where she was beloved by Mrs. Forrest and. wor 
shiped by Rossie as a kind of divinity though she did 


BEATRICE BELKNAT. 


ad 

not quite like all she did and said. Offers, many and 
varied, Beatrice had had, both at home and abroad. She 
might have been the wife of a senator. She might have 
married her music-teacher and her dancing-master. She 
might have been a missionary and taught the Feegee Is¬ 
landers how to read. She might have been a countess in 
Rome, a baroness in Germany, and my lady in Edin¬ 
burgh, but she had said no to them all, and felt the hard¬ 
est wrench when she said it to the Feegee missionary, 
and for aught anybody knew, was heart-whole and fancy- 
free when she alighted from her phaeton at the door of 
Forrest House the morning after Everard’s arrival. She 
knew he was there, and with the spirit of coquetry so 
much a part of herself she had made her toilet with a 
direct reference to this young man whom she had not 
seen for more than a year, and who, when joked about 
marrying her, had once called her old Bee Belknap , and 
wondered if any one supposed he would marry his 
grandmother. 

Miss Bee had smiled sweetly on this audacious boy 
who called her old and a grandmother, and had laid a 
wager with herself that he should some day offer him¬ 
self to “ old Bee Belknap,” and be refused ! In case he 
didn’t she would build a church in Omaha and support a 
missionary there five years ! She was much given to 
building churches and supporting missionaries,—this 
sprightly, dashing girl of twenty-one, who flashed, and 
sparkled, and shone in the summer sunshine, like a dia¬ 
mond, as she threw her reins over the backs of her two 
ponies, Spitfire and Starlight, and giving each of them 
a loving caress bade them stand still and not whisk their 
tails too much even if the flies did bite them. Then, 
with ribbons and laces streaming from her on all sides, 
she went fluttering up the steps and into the broad hall 
where Everard met her. 

Between him and herself there had been a strong 
friendship since the time she first came from France, and 
queened it over him on the strength of her foreign style 
and a year’s seniority in age. From the very first she 
had been much at the Forrest House, and had played 
with Everard, and romped with him, and read with him, 
and driven with him, and rowed with him upon the river, 
and quarreled with him, too,—hot, fierce qiarrels,— in 


40 


BEATRICE BELKNAP 


which the girl generally had the best of it, inasmuch a? 
her voluble French, which she hurled at him with light¬ 
ning rapidity, had stunned and bewildered him ; and 
then they had made it up, and were the best of friends, 
and more than one of the knowing ones in Rothsay had 
predicted a union some day of the Forrest and Belknap 
fortunes. Once, when such a possibility was hinted tc 
Everard, who was fresh from a hot skirmish with Bee, 
he had, as recorded, called her old , and made mention of 
his grandmother, and she had sworn to be revenged, and 
was conscious all the time of a greater liking for the 
heir of Forrest House than she had felt for any man 
since the Feegee missionary sailed away with his Ver¬ 
mont school-mistress, who wore glasses, and a brown 
alpaca dress. Bee could have forgiven the glasses, but 
the brown alpaca,— never , and she pitied the missionary 
more than ever, thinking how he must contrast her Paris 
gowns, which he had said were so pretty, with that 
abominable brown garb of his bride. 

Everard had never quite fancied the linking of his 
name with that of Beatrice in a matrimonial way, and it 
nad sometimes led him to assume an indifference which 
he did not feel, but now, with Josephine between them 
as an insurmountable barrier, he could act out his real 
feelings of genuine liking for the gay butterfly, and he 
met her with an unusual degree of cordiality, which she 
was quick to note just as she had noted another change 
in him. A skillful reader of the human face, she looked 
in Everard’s, and saw something she could not define. 
It was the shadow of his secret, and she could not inter¬ 
pret it. She only felt that he was no longer a boy, but 
a man, old even as his years, and that he was very glad 
to see her, and looked his gladness to the full. Bee 
Belknap was a born coquette, and would have flirted in 
her coffin had the thing been possible, and now, during 
the moment she stood in the hail with her hand in Ever- 
nrd’s, she managed to make him understand how greatly 
improved she found him, how delighted she was to see 
him, and how inexpressibly dull and poky Rothsay was 
without him. She did not say all this in words, but she 
conveyed it to him with graceful gestures of her prettj 
hands, and sundry expressive shrugs of her shoulders, 
and Everarl felt flattered and pleased, and for a few 


BEATRICE BELKNAP 


41 


moments forgot Josephine, while he 'watchec this bril¬ 
liant creature as she flitted into the sick room, where her 
manner suddenly changed, and she became quiet, and 
gentle, and womanly, as she sat down by his mother’s 
side, and asked how she was, and stroked and fondled 
the thin, pale face, and petted the wasted hands which 
sought hers so gladly. Bee Belknap always did sick 
people good, and there was not a sick bed in all Rothsay, 
from the loftiest dwelling to the lowest tenant house, 
which she did not visit, making the rich ones more hope¬ 
ful and cheerful from the effect of her strong, sympa¬ 
thetic nature, and dazzling, and bewildering, and grati¬ 
fying the poor, with whom she often left some tangible 
proof of her presence. 

“ You do me so much good ; I am always better after 
one of your calls,” Mrs. Forrest said to her; and then, 
when Bee arose to go, and said, “ May I take Everard 
with me for a short drive ?” she answered readily : “ Yes, 
do. I shall be glad for him to get the air.” 

And so Everard found himself seated at Beatrice’s 
side, and whirling along the road toward the village, for 
he wished to post his letter, and asked her to take him 
first to the post-office. 

“ What would she say if she knew ?” he thought, and 
it seemed to him as if the letter in his pocket must burn 
itself through and show her the name upon it. 

And then he fell to comparing the two girls with 
each other, and wondering why he should feel so much 
more natural, as if in his own atmosphere and on his 
good behavior, with Beatrice than he did with Josephine. 
Both were beautiful; both were piquant and bright, but 
still there was a difference. Beatrice never for a moment 
allowed him to forget that she was a lady and he a gen¬ 
tleman ; never approached to anything like coarseness, 
and he would as soon have thought of insulting his mother 
aa to have taken the slightest familiarity either by word 
or act with Bee. Josephine, on the contrary, allowed great 
latitude of word and action, and by her free-and-easy 
manner often led him into doing and saying things for 
which he would have blushed with shame had Beatrice, 
or even Rossie Hastings, been there to see and hear. 
Had Josephine lived in Hew York, or any other city, she 
would have added one more to that large class of pec pie 


42 


BEATRICE BELKNAP. 


who laugh at om time-honored notions of propriety 
and true, pure womanhood, and on the broad platform 
of liberality and freedom sacrifice all that is sweetest 
and best in their sex. As a matter of course her influ¬ 
ence over Everard was not good, and he had imbibed so 
much of the subtle poison that some of his sensibilities 
were blunted, and he was beginning to think that his 
early ideas were prudish and nonsensical. But there 
was something about Rosamond and Beatrice both which 
worked as an antidote to the poison, and as he rode 
along with the latter, and listened to her light, graceful 
badinage, in which there was nothing approaching to 
vulgarity, he was conscious of feeling more respect for 
himself than he had felt in many a day. 

They had left the village now, and were out upon the 
smooth river road, where they came upon a young M. D. 
of Rothsay, who was jogging leisurely along in his high 
sulky, behind his old sorrel mare. Beatrice knew the 
doctor well, and more than once they had driven side by 
side amid a shower of dust, along that fine, broad road, 
and now, when she saw him and his sorry-looking nag, 
the spirit of mischief and frolic awoke within her, and 
she could no more refrain from some saucy remark con¬ 
cerning his beast and challenging him to a trial of speed 
than she could keep from breathing. Another moment 
and they were off like the wind, and to Bee’s great sur¬ 
prise old Jenny, the sorrel mare, who, in her long-past 
youth had been a racer and swept the stakes at Cincin¬ 
nati, and who now at the sound of battle felt her old 
blood rise, kept neck to neck with the fleet horses, Spit¬ 
fire and Starlight. At last old Jenny shot past them, 
and in her excitement Beatrice rose, and standing up¬ 
right, urged her ponies on until Jenny’s wind gave out, 
and Starlight and Spitfire were far ahead and rushing 
down the turnpike at a break-neck speed, which rocked 
the light phaeton from side to side and seemed almost to 
lift it from the ground. It was a decided runaway now, 
and people stopped to look after the mad horses and the 
excited but not in the least frightened girl, who, still 
standing upright, with her hat hanging down her back 
and her wig a little awry, kept them with a firm hand 
straight in the road, and said to tim white-faced man 
beside her, when he, too, sprang up to take the reins ; 


BEATRICE BELKNAP: 


43 


'* Sit down and keep quiet. I’ll see you safely through. 
We can surely ride as fast as they can run. I rather 
enjoy it.” 

And so she did until they came to a point where the 
road turned with the river, and where in the bend a little 
school-house stood. It was just recess, and a troop of 
boys came crowding out, whooping and yelling as only 
boys can whoop and yell, when they saw the ponies, who, 
really frightened now, shied suddenly, and reared high 
in the air. After that came chaos and darkness to Ever- 
ard, and the next he knew he was iying on the grass, 
with his head in Bee’s lap, and the blood flowing from a 
deep gasn m his iorehead, just above the left eye. This 
was stanching with her handkerchief, and bathing 
his lace with the water the boys brought her in a tin 
dipper from the school-house. Far off in the distance 
the ponies were still running, and scattered at intervals 
along the road were fragments of the broken phaeton, 
together with Bee’s bonnet, and, worse than all, her wig. 
But Bee did not know that she had lost it, or care for her 
ruined phaeton. She did not know or care for anything, 
except that Everard Forrest was lying upon the grass as 
white and still as if he were really dead. But Everard 
was not dead, and the doctor, who soon came up with 
the panting, mortified Jennie, said it was only a flesh 
wound, from which nothing serious would result. Then 
Bee thought of her hair, which a boy had rescued from 
a playful puppy who was doing his best to tear it in 
pieces. The sight of her wig made Bee herself again, 
and with many a merry joke at her own expense, she 
mounted into a farmer’s wagon with Everard, and bade 
the driver take them back to the Forrest House. 

It was Rossie who met them first, her black eyes 
growing troubled and anxious when she saw the band¬ 
age on Everard’s head. But he assured her it was noth¬ 
ing, while Bee laughed over- the adventure, and when 
the judge would have censured his son, took all the 
blame upon herself, and then, promising to call again in 
the evening, went in search of her truant horses. 


44 


MOTHER AND 80M 


CHAPTER VI. 

MOTHEK AND SON. 



HAT afternoon Mrs. Forrest seemed so muofc 
better that even her husband began to hope, 
when he saw the color on her cheek, and the 
increased brightness of her eyes. But she was 
not deceived. She knew the nature of her dis¬ 
ease, and that she had not long to live. So what she would 
say to her son must be said without delay. According¬ 
ly, after lunch, she bade Rossie send him to her, and then 
leave them alone together. Everard obeyed the sum¬ 
mons at once, though there was a shrinking fear in his 
heart as he thought, “Now I must tell her of Josey,” 
and wondered what she would say. Since his drive with 
Beatrice it did not seem half so easy to talk of Jose¬ 
phine, and that marriage ceremony was very far away, 
and very unreal, too. His mother was propped up on her 
pillows, and smiled pleasantly upon him as he took his 
seat beside her. 

“ Everard,” she began, “ there are so many things I 
must say to you about the past and the future, and I 
must say them now while I have the strength. Another 
day may be too late.” 

He knew to what she referred, and with a protest 
against it, told her she was not going to die; she 
must not ; she must live for him, who would be nothing 
without her. 

Very gently she soothed him into quiet, and he lis 
tened while she talked of all he had been, and all she 
wished him to be in the future. Faithfully, but gently, 
she went over with his faults, one by one, beseeching 
him to forsake them, and with a bursting heart he prom¬ 
ised everything which she required, and told her again 
of the reform already commenced. 

“ God bless you, my boy, and prosper you as you 
keep this pledge to your dying mother, and whether you 
are great or not, may you be good and Ohristlike, and 
come cne day to meet me where sorrow is unknown,” she 






MOTHER AND SON. 


48 


said to him finally ; then, after a pause, she continued. 
“ There is one subject more of which, as a woman and 
your mother, I must speak to you. Some day you will 
marry, of course-” 

u Yes, mother/’ and Everard started violently, while 
the cold sweat stood in drops about his lips, but he could 
say no more then, and his mother continued : “ I have 
thought many times who and what your wife would be, 
and have pictured her often to myself, and loved her for 
your sake; but I shall never see her, when she comes 
here I shall be gone, and so I will speak of her now, 
and say it is not my wish that you should wait many 
years before marrying. I believe in early marriages, 
where there is mutual love and esteem. Then you make 
allowance more readily for each other’s habits and pecu¬ 
liarities. I mean no disrespect to your father, he has 
been kind to me, but I think he waited too long ; there 
were too man } 7 years between us ; my feelings and ideas 
were young, his middle-aged ; better begin alike for 
perfect unity. And, my boy, be sure you marry a lady.” 

“A lady, mother?” Everard said, wondering if bis 
mother would call Josephine a lady. 

“Yes, Everard,” she replied, “ a lady in the true sense 
of the word, a person of education and refinement, and 
somewhere near your own rank in life. I never believed 
in the Maud Muller poem, never was sorry that the 
judge did not take the maiden for his wife. He might, 
perhaps, never have blushed for her, but he would have 
blushed for her family, and their likeness in his children’s 
faces would have been a secret annoyance. I do not say 
that every mesalliance proves unhappy, but it is better 
to marry your equal, if you can, for a low-born person, 
with low-born tastes, will, of necessity, drag you down 
to her level.” 

She stopped a moment to rest, but Everard did not 
speak for the fierce struggle in his heart. He must tell 
he’* of Josephine, and could he say that she had no low¬ 
born tastes ? Alas, he could not, when he remembered 
things which had dropped from her pretty lips so easily 
and naturally, and at which he had laughed as at some¬ 
thing spicy and daring. Ilia mother would call them 
coarse, with all her innate refinement and delicacy, and 
a shiver ran through him as he seemed to hear agai & the 



48 


MOTHER AND SON. 


words “ I pronounce you man and wife.” They were 
always ringing in his ears, louder sometimes than at 
others, and now they were so loud as almost to drown 
the low voice which after a little went on : 

“I do not believe in parents selecting companions foi 
their children, but surely I may suggest. You are not. 
obliged to follow my suggestion, I would have your 
choice perfectly free,” she added, quickly, as she saw a 
look of consternation on his face, and mistook its mean' 
ing. “ I have thought, and think still, that were I to 
choose for you, it would be Beatrice.” 

“Beatrice ! Bee Belknap! mother,” and Everard 
fairly gasped. “ Bee Belknap is a great deal older than 
I am.” 

“Just a year, which is not much in this case. Sh<s 
will not grow old fast, while you will mature early; the 
disparity would never be thought of,” Mrs. Forrest said 
“Beatrice is a little wild, and full of fun and frolic, but 
under all that is a deep-seated principle of propriety and 
right, which makes her a noble and lovely character. 1 
should be willing to trust you with her, and your father’s 
heart is quite set on this match. I may tell you now 
that it has been in his mind for years, and I wish you to 
please him, both for his sake and yours. I hope you 
will think of it, Everard, and try to love Beatrice; surely 
i cannot be hard to do that ?” 

“No, mother,” Everard said, “but you seem to put 
her out of the question entirely. Is she to have no choice 
in the matter, and do you think that, belle and flirt as 
she is, she would for a moment consider me, Ned Forrest, 
whom she calls a boy, and ridicules unmercifully? She 
would not have me, were I to ask her a thousand times.” 

“ I think you may be wrong,” Mrs. Forrest said. “ It, 
surely can’t be that you love some one else ?” and she 
looked at him searchingly. 

Now was the time to speak of Josephine, if ever, and 
while his heart beat so loudly that he could hear it, he 
said, “ Yes, mother, I do like some one else ;—it is a 
young girl in Holburton, where I staid last summer. 
She is very beautiful. This is her picture,” and he passed 
Josephine’s photograph to his mother, who studied it 
carefully for two or three minutes; then turning her eye® 
to her son she said : “ She is beautiful, so far as features 


MOTHER AND SON. 


47 


and complexion are concerned, but I am greatly mistaken 
in you if the original of this face can satisfy you long/ 

“Why, mother, what fault have you to find with 
her ? Isn’t she a born lady ?” Everard asked, a little 
scornfully, for he was warming up in Josephine’s 
defense. 

“ Don’t misunderstand Avhat I mean by a lady,” Mrs, 
Forrest said. “ Birth has not all to do with it. Per¬ 
sons may be born of the lowliest parentage, and in the 
humblest shed, but still have that within them which 
will refine, and soften, and elevate till the nobility with¬ 
in asserts itself, and lifts them above their surroundings. 
In this case,” and she glanced again at the picture, “ the 
inborn nobility, if there were any, has had time to assert 
itself, and stamp its impress upon the face, and it has 
not done that.” 

“ For pity’s sake, mother, tell me what you see to 
dislike so much in Josephine !” Everard burst out, indig¬ 
nantly. 

His mother knew he was angry, but she would not 
spare him, lest a great misfortune should befall him. 
She saw the face she looked upon was very fair, but 
there was that about it from which she shrank intuitively, 
her quick woman instinct telling her it was false as fair, 
and not at all the face she would have in her boy’s home ; 
so she answered him unhesitatingly : 

“ Shall I tell you the kind of person I fancy this girl 
to be, judging from her picture ? Her face is one to 
attract young men like you, and she would try to attract 
you, too, and the very manner with which she would do 
it would be the perfection of art. There is a treacher¬ 
ous, designing look in these eyes, so blue and dreamy, 
and about the mouth there is a cruel, selfish expression 
which I do not like. I do not believe she can be trusted. 
And then, it may be a minor matter, I do not like her 
Style of dress. A really modest girl would not have sat 
for her picture with so much exposure of neck and arms, 
and so much jewelry. Surely you must have noticed 
the immense chain and cross, and all the show of brace- 
lets, and pins, and ornaments in her hair.” 

Everard had thought of it, but he would not acknowl¬ 
edge it, and his mother continued : 

“ The whole effect is tawdry, and, excuse me for 


48 


MOTHER AND SON 


putting it so strongly, but it reminds me of the dollar 
store, and the jewelry bought there. She cannot have 
the true instincts of a lady. Who is she, Everard, and 
where does she live ?” 

Everard was terribly hurt and intensely mortified* 
while something told him that his mother was not alto- 

f ether wrong in her estimation of the girl, whose picture 
id resemble more a second-rate actress tricked out in her 
flashy finery than a pure, modest young girl ; but he an 
swered his mother’s question, and said : 

“She lives in Holburton, New York, and her name is 
Josephine Fleming. I boarded for three weeks last 
summer w T ith her mother, Widow Roxie Fleming, as the 
people call her.” 

He spit the last out a little defiantly, feeling resolved 
that his mother should krow all he knew about the 
Flemings, be it good or bad, but he was not prepared for 
the next remark. 

“ Roxie ? Roxie Fleming ? Is she a second wife, 
and is there a step-daughter much older than Josephine ?” 

“ Yes; but how did you know it, and where have you 
seen them ?” Everard asked, eagerly, his anger giving 
way to his nervous dread of some development worse 
even than the dollar jewelry, which had hurt him 
cruelly. 

“Years ago, when I was a young girl, we had in our 
family a cook, Roxie Burrows bv name, competent, tidy, 
and faithful in the discharge of her duties, but crafty, 
designing and ambitious. Our butcher was a Mr. Flem¬ 
ing, a native of Ireland, and a very respectable man, 
whose little daughter used sometimes to bring us the 
steak for breakfast in the morning, and through whom 
Roxie captured the father, after the mother died. She 
was so sorry for the child, and mended her frocks, and 
made much of her till the father was won, when, it was 
said, the tables were turned, and little Agnes mended the 
frocks and darned the socks, while Roxie played the 
lady. I remember hearing of the birth of a daughter, 
but I was married about that time, and knew no more of 
the Flemings until a few years later, when I was visiting 
in Boston, and mother told me that he was dead, and 
Roxie had gone with the children to some place West. 
I am sure it must be the same woman with whom you 


MOTHER AND 8ON. 


49 


boarded. Has she sandy hair and light gra^ eyes, with 
long yellow lashes ?” 

‘‘ Yes, she has ; it is the same,” Everard replied, with 
a feeling like death in his heart as he thought how im¬ 
possible it was now to tell his mother that Josephine 
was his wife. 

Plow impossible it was that she would ever be recon¬ 
ciled to the daughter of her cook and butcher, who added 
to her other faults the enormity of wearing dollar jew¬ 
elry ! And I think that last really hurt Everard the 
most. On such points he was very fastidious and par¬ 
ticular, and more than once had himself thought Josey’s 
dress too flashy, but the glamour of love was over all, 
and a glance of her blue eyes, or touch of her white 
hands always set him right again and brought him back 
to his allegiance. But the hands and the eyes were not 
there now to stand between him and what his mother 
had said, and he felt like crying out bitterly as he took 
back his photograph and listened a few moments longer, 
while his mother talked lovingly and kindly, telling him 
he must forgive her if she had seemed harsh, that it was 
for his good, as he would one day see. He would forget 
this boyish fancy in time and come to wonder a his in¬ 
fatuation. Forget it! with those words ever in his 
ears, “I pronounce you man and wife.” He could not 
forget, and it was not quite sure that he would do so if 
he could. Josey’s face and Josey’s wiles had a power 
over him yet to keep him comparatively loyal. He had 
loved her with all the intensity of a boy’s first fervent 
passion, which never stopped to criticise her manner, or 
language, or style of dress, though, now that his eyes 
were opened a little, it occurred to him that there might 
be something flashy in her appearance, and something 
told him that the massive chain and cross, so conspicuous 
on Josephine’s bosom, came from that store in Pittsfield, 
where everything was a dollar, from an immense pic¬ 
ture down to a set of spoons. And his mother had de¬ 
tected it, by what subtle intuition he could not guess ; 
and had traced her origin back to a butcher and a 
cook! Well, what then? Was Josey the worse for 
that ? Was it not America’s boast that the children of 
butchers, and bakers, and candlestick-makers should 
stand in the high places and give rule ? Certainly it 

3 


60 


MOTHER AND SON. 


was, and his mother herself had said it was neither birth 
nor blood which made the i.ady. It was a nobleness from 
within asserting itself without, and stamping its impress 
upon its possessor. And had Josephine this inborn re¬ 
finement and nobility, or had she not ? That was the 
point which troubled the young man as he went out from 
his mother’s presence, and sought a little arbor in a re¬ 
tired part of the grounds where he would be free to think 
it out. With his head, which was aching terribly, bowed 
upon his hands, he went oyer all the past as connected 
with Josephine, detecting here and there many a word 
and act which, alas, went far toward proving that his 
mother’s estimate of her was not very wrong. But how 
did his mother divine it ? Had women some secret 
method of reading each other unknown to the other sex. 
Could Beatrice read her, too, from that photograph, and 
what would Bee’s verdict be ? He wished he knew ; 
wished he could show it to her incidentally as the photo¬ 
graph of a mere acquaintance. And while he was thus 
thinking he heard in the distance Bee’s voice, and lifting 
up his head he saw her coming down the long walk gayly 
and airily, in her pretty white muslin dress, with a bit of 
pink coral in her ears and in the lace bow at her throat. 
One could see that she was a saucy, fun-loving, frolic¬ 
some girl, with opinions of her own, which sometimes 
startled the staid ones who walked year by year in the 
same rut, but she was every whit a lady, and looked it, 
too, as she came rapidly toward Everard, who found 
himself studying and criticising her as he had never 
criticised a woman before. She was not like Josephine, 
though wherein the difference consisted he could not tell. 
He only knew that the load at his heart was heavier than 
ever, and that he almost felt that in some way he was 
aggrieved by this young girl, who, when she saw him, 
hastened her steps and was soon at his side. 

“ Oh, here you are,” she said, “ Rossie told me 1 
should find you in the garden. I came to inquire after 
that broken head, for which I feel responsible. Why, 
Ned,” she continued, calling him by the old familiar 
name of his boyhood, “ how white you are ! I am afraid 
it was more serious than I supposed and she looked 
anxiously into his pale, worn face. 

His head was aching terribly, but he would not ac 


MOTHER AND SON. 


61 


knowledge It. He only said he was a little tired, that 
the cut on his forehead was nothing, and would soon be 
well ; then, making Beatrice sit down beside him he be¬ 
gan to ask her numberless questions about the people of 
Rothsay, especially the young ladies. Where was Sylvia 
Blackmer, and where was Annie Doane, and, by-the-way, 
where was Allie Beadle, that pretty little blonde, with 
the great blue eyes, who used to sing in the choir. 

. “By Jove, she was pretty,” he said, “ except that her 
hair was a little too yellow. She looks so much like a 
girl east that some of the college boys rave about, only 
this girl, Miss Fleming, is the prettier of the two. I 
shouldn’t wonder if I had her photograph somewhere. 
She had a lot taken and gave me one. Yes, here it is,” 
he continued, after a feint of rummaging his pocket- 
book. “ What do you think of her ?” he asked, passing 
the picture to Beatrice, and feeling himself a monster of 
duplicity and deception. 

Bee took the card, and looking at it a moment, said ' 

u Yes, she is very pretty ; but you don’t want any¬ 
thing to do with that girl. She is not like you.” 

It was the old story repeated, and Everard felt net¬ 
tled and annoyed, but managed not to show it, as he 
replied : 

“ Who said I did want anything to do with her ? But 
honestly, though, what do you see in her to dislike ?” 

“Nothing to dislike,” Bee said, “ I do not fancy her 
make-up, that’s all. She looks as if she would wear cot¬ 
ton lace !” and having said what in her estimation was 
the worst thing she could say of a woman, Beatrice 
handed him back the picture, which he put up silently, 
feeling that he could not tell Beatrice of Josey. 

He could not tell anybody unless it was Rossie, and 
he did not believe he cared to do that now, though he 
would like to show her the picture and hear what she 
Lad to say. Would she see dollar jewelry and cotton 
lace in the face he thought so divine? He meant to try 
her, and after Beatrice was gone he strolled off to & 
shaded part of the grounds, where he came upon Rossie 
watering a bed o £ fuchsias. She was not sylph-like and 
graceful, or clad in airy muslin, like Beatrice. She was 
unformed and angular, and her dress was a dark chintz, 
short enough to show her slender ankles, which he had 


62 


MOTHER AND SON. 


once teasingly called pipe-stems, and her thick boots, 
which were much too large, for she would not have her 
feet pinched, and always wore shoes a size and a-kalf too 
big. A clean white apron, ruffled and fluted, and a white 
sun-bonnet, completed her costume. Josephine would 
hsure called her “ homely,” if she had noticed her at all, 
and some such idea was in Everard’s mind as he ap¬ 
proached her ; but when, at the sound of his footsteps, 
she turned and flashed upon him from beneath the cape- 
bonnet those great, brilliant eyes, he changed his mind, 
and thought: “ Won’t those e/es do mischief yet, when 
Rossie gets a little older.” 

She was glad to see him, and stopped watering her 
flowers while she inquired after his head, and if Miss 
Belknap found him. 

“ Yes, she did,” he said, adding, as he sat down in a 
rustic chair : “ Bee is handsome and no mistake.” 

“ That’s so,” Rossie replied, promptly, for Bee Bel¬ 
knap’s beauty was her hobby. “ She is the handsomest 
girl I ever saw. Don’t you think so ?” 

Here was his opportunity, and he hastened to seize it. 

“ Why, no,” he said, “ not the very handsomest I 
ever saw. I have a photograph of a girl I think prettier. 
Here she is.” And he passed Josephine’s picture toward 
Rossie who s«t down her watering-pot, and wiping her 
soiled hands, took it as carefully as if it had been the 
picture of a goddess. 

“ Oh, Mr. Everard !” she cried, “ she is beautiful; 
more so than Miss Beatrice, I do believe. Such dreamy 
eyes, which look at you so kind of—kind of coaxingly, 
somehow; and such lovely hair! Who is she, Mr. 
Everard ?” 

“ Oh, she’s one of the girls,” Everard answered, laugh¬ 
ingly, and experiencing a sudden revulsion of feeling in 
Josey’s favor at Rossie’s opinion of her. 

Here was one who could give an unprejudiced opin¬ 
ion ; here was a champion for Josey ; and in his delight, 
Everard thought how, with his first spare money, he 
would buy Rossie a gold ring, as a reward of merit for 
what she had said of Josey. Her next remarks, how¬ 
ever, dampened his ardor a little. 

“ She’s very rich, isn’t she?” Rossie asked; and he 
replied: * 


MOTHER AM) 3OH. 


Be 


“So, not Huh at all. Why do you think that*?’* 

“ Because she has such a big chain and cross, and 
such heavy bracelets and ear-rings, and is dressed more 
than Miss Belknap dresses at a grand party,” Rossie 
said : and Everard answered her quickly : 

“ Rossie, you are a little thing, not much bigger thar; 
my thumb, but you have more sense than many older 
girls. Tell me, then, if you know, is it bad taste to be 
overdressed in a picture, and is it a crime, a sin, to wear 
bogus jewelry ?” 

She did not at all know at what he was aiming, and, 
pleased with the compliment to her wisdom, answered, 
with great gravity : 

“ Not a crime to wear flash jew'elry,—no. I wore a 
Drass ring once till it blacked my finger. I wore a glass 
breast-pin, too, vthich cost me twenty-five cents, till your 
mother said it was foolish, and not like a lady. But I 
do not think it’s a crime ; it’s only second-classy. A 
great many do it, and I shouldn’t wonder a bit if,”— 
here the little lady looked very wise, and lifted her fore¬ 
finger by way of emphasis—“ I shouldn’t wonder a bit if 
this chain and cross were both shams, for now that I 
look at her more closely, she looks like a sham, too.” 

Rosamond’s prospect for a ring was gone forever, 
and Everard’s voice trembled as he took back his pic¬ 
ture, and said : 

“ Thank you, Rossie, for telling me what you thought. 
Maybe she is a sham. Most things are in this world, I 

find.” 

Then he walked rapidly away, while Rossie stood 
looking after him and wondering if he was angry with 
her, and who the young girl was, and if he really liked 
her. 

“ I hope not,” she thought, “ for though she is very 
handsome, there is something about her which does not 
seem like Mr. Everard and Sliss Beatrice. They ought 
to go together ; they must ; it is so suitable and 
having settled the future of Beatrice and Everard to her 
own satisfaction, the little girl resumed her work among 
the flowers, and did not see Everard again until supper¬ 
time, when he looked so pale and tired that even his 
father noticed it and asked if he were sick. 

The cut over his eye was paining him, he sail, and ii 


54 


MOTHER AND SON. 


they would excuse liira he would retire to his room early, 
and should probably be all right on the morrow. The 
night was hot and sultry, and even the light breeze from 
the river seemed oppressive and laden with thunder, and 
for hours Everard lay awake thinking of the future, 
which stretched before him so drearily with that burden 
on his mind. How he wished that it might prove a 
dream, from which he should awake to find himself free 
once more,—free to marry Josephine if he chose, and he 
presumed he should, but not till his college days were 
over, and he could take her openly and publicly as a 
true man takes the woman he loves and honors. How 
he hated to be a sneak and a coward, and he called him¬ 
self by these names many times, and loathed himself for 
the uudefinable something creeping over him, and which 
made him shrink even from Josephine herself as Jose¬ 
phine. He said he did not care a picayune for the 
butcher and the cook, and he did not care for the 
dollar jewelry and cotton lace, though he would rather 
his mother and Bee had not used the opprobrious 
terms, but he did care for the sham of which his 
mother had spoken, and which even Rossie had de¬ 
tected. Was Josey a sham, and if so, what was his 
life with her to be ? Alas for Everard ! he was only 
just entering the cloud which w T as to overshadow him 
for so many wretched years. At last he fell into a 
troubled sleep, from which he was aroused by the noise 
of the storm of rain which had swept down the river and 
was beating against the house, but above the storm there 
was another sound, Rossie calling to him in tones of 
affright, and bidding him hasten to his mother, who was 
dying. 

Of all which followed next Everard retained in after 
life but a vague consciousness. There was a confused 
dressing in the dark, a hurrying to his mother, whose 
white face turned so eagerly toward him, and whose 
pallid lips were pressed upon his brow as they prayed 
God to keep him from evil, and bring him at last to the 
world she was going to. There were words of love and 
tender parting to the stricken husband and heart-broken 
Rossie, who had been to her like a daughter, and whom 
she committed to the care of both Everard and bis 
father, as a precious legacy left in their charge. Then, 


MOTHER AMD 8 ON. 


55 


dra\* mg Everard close to her, she whispered so low that 
no one else could hear : 

“Forgive me if I seemed harsh in what I said of 
Josephine. I only meant it for your good. I may have 
been mistaken ; I hope I was. I hope she is good, and 
true, and womanly, and if she is, and you love her, her 
birth is of no consequence, none whatever. God bless 
you, my child, and her, too !” 

She never spoke again, and when the early summer 
morning looked into the room, there was only a still, 
motionless figure on the bed, with pale hands folded 
upon the bosom, and the pillow strewn with flowers, 
which Rosamond had put there. Rosamond thought of 
everything ; first of the dead, then of the stern judge, 
who broke down entirely by the side of his lost Mary, 
and then of Everard, who seemed like one stunned by a 
heavy blow. With the constantly increasing pain in his 
head, blinding him even more than the tears he shed, he 
wrote to Josephine : 

“ Oh, Josey, you will be sorry for me when I tell you 
mother is dead. She died this morning at three o’clock, 
and I am heart-broken. She was all the world to me. 
What shall I do without my mother?” 

He posted the letter himself, and then kept his room, 
and for the most part his bed, until the day of the fune¬ 
ral, when, hardly knowing what he was doing, or realiz¬ 
ing what was passing around him, he stood by his 
mother’s grave, saw the coffin lowered into it, heard the 
earth rattling down upon it, and had a strange sensation 
of wonder as to whom they were burying, and who he 
was himself. That puzzled him the most, except, in¬ 
deed, the question as to where the son was, the young 
man from Amherst College, who drove such fast horses, 
and smoked so many cigars, and sometimes bet at cards. 
“ He ought to be here seeing to this,” he thought; and 
then, as a twinge of pain shot through his temple, he 
moaned faintly, and went back to the carriage, in which 
he was driven rapidly home. 

There was a letter from Josephine in his room, which 
had come while he was at his mother’s grave. He recog¬ 
nized the handwriting at once, and with a feeling as if 
something were clutching his throat and impeding hia 
breath, he took it up, and opening it, read his first letter 
from his wife. 


66 


JOSEPHINE 


CHAPTER VII. 

JOSEPHINE. 

M MEDIATELY after Everard’s departure she 
wrote to the postmaster at Clarence, making 
inquiries for Doctor Mattkewson, and in due 
time received an answer addressed to the 
fictitious name which she had given. There 
had been a clergyman in town by that name, the post¬ 
master wrote, but he had been dismissed for various mis¬ 
demeanors. However, a marriage performed by him, 
with the knowledge and consent of the parties, would 
undoubtedly be binding on such parties. Latterly he 
had taken to the study of medicine, and assumed the title 
of “ Doctor.” 

There could be no mistake, and the harrowing doubt 
which had so weighed on Josephine’s spirits gave way 
as she read this answer to her letter. She was Mrs 
James Everard Forrest, and she wrote the name many 
times on slips of paper which she tore up and threw 
upon the floor. Then, summoning Agnes from the 
kitchen, she bade her arrange her hair, for there was a 
concert in the Hall that night, and she was going. Al¬ 
ways meek and submissive, Agnes obeyed, and brushed 
and curled the beautiful golden hair, and helped array 
her sister in the pretty blue muslin, and clasped about 
her neck and arms the heavy bracelets and chain which 
had been so criticised and condemned at the Forrest 
House. They were not quite as bright now as when the 
young lady first bought them in Pittsfield. Their luster 
was somewhat tarnished, and Josephine knew it, and 
felt a qualm of disgust every time she looked at them 
She knew the difference between the real and the sham 
quite as well as Beatrice herself, and by and by, when 
she was established in her rightful position as Mrs. Ever¬ 
ard Forrest, she meant to indulge to the full her fondness 
for dress, and make amends for the straits to which she 
had all her life been subjected. 

“ She would make oid Forrest’s money fly, only let 








JOSEPHINE. 


5 r < 


her have a chance,” she said to Agnes, to whom she was 
repeating the contents of the letter just received from 
Clarence. 

“ Then it’s true, and you are his wife ?” Agnes said, 
her voice _ndicative of anything but pleasure. 

This Josephine was quick to detect, and she answered, 
sharply : 

“His wife? yes. Have you any objection? One 
would suppose by your manner that you were sorry for 
Everard.” 

“And so I am,” Agnes answered, boldly. “I don’t 
believe he knew what he was doing. It’s a pity for him, 
he is so young, and we so different.” 

“ So different, Agnes ? I wish you wouldn’t forever 
harp on that string. As if I were not quite as good as a 
Forrest or any other aristocrat. Can’t you ever forget 
your Irish blood ? It does not follow because the poor 
people in Ireland and England lie down and let the 
nobility walk over them, that we do it in America, where 
it does sometimes happen that the daughter of a butcher 
and a cook may marry into a family above her level.” 

“Yes, I know all that,” Agnes said. “Praised be 
Heaven for America, where everybody who has it in him 
can rise if he will ; and yet, there’s a difference here, 
just as much and more, I sometimes think, for to be some¬ 
body you must have it in yon. I can’t explain, but I 
know what I mean, and so do you.” 

“ Yes, I do,” Josephine replied, angrily. “ You mean 
that I have not the requisite qualifications to make me 
acceptable at the Forrest House ; that my fine lady from 
Boston would be greatly shocked to know that the mother 
of her daughter-in-law once cooked her dinner and 
washed her clothes.” 

“ No, not for that,—not for birth or poverty,” Agnea 
said, eagerly, “ but because you are,—you are-” 

“Well, what?” Josephine demanded, impatiently, 
end Agnes replied : 

“ You are what you are.” 

“ And pray what am I?” Josephine retorted. “I was 
Miss Josephine Fleming, daughter of Mrs. Roxie Flem¬ 
ing, who used to work for the Bigelows of Boston till 
she married an Irish butcher, who was shabby enough to 

die and leave her to shift for herself, which she did by 

8 * 


58 


JOSEPHINE . 


taking boarders. That’s what I was. Now, I am Mrs. 
James Everard Forrest, with a long line of blue-blooded 
Southern ancestry, to say nothing of the bluer Bigelows 
of Boston. That’s who I am ; so please button my boots 
and bring me my shawl and fan ; it’s high time I was 
off.” 

Agnes obeyed, and buttoned the boots, and put a bit 
of blacking on the toe where the leather was turning 
red, and brought the fleecy shawl and wrapped it care¬ 
fully around her sister, who looked exceedingly graceful 
and pretty, and bore herself like a princess as she entered 
the Hall and took one of the most conspicuous seats. 
How she wished the people could know the honor to 
which she had come; and when, to the question as to 
who she was, asked by a stranger behind her, she heard 
the reply, “ Oh, that’s Joe Fleming ; her mother keeps 
boarders,” she longed to shriek out her new name, and 
announce herself as Mrs. James Everard Forrest. But 
it was policy to keep silent, and she was content to bide 
her time, and anticipate what she would do in the future 
when her marriage was announced. Of Everard himself 
she thought a great deal, but she thought more of his 
position and wealth than she did of him. And yet she 
was very anxious to hear from him, and when his letter 
came she tore it open eagerly, while a bright flush col¬ 
ored her cheek when she saw the words, “My dear little 
wife,” and her heart was very light as she read the brief 
letter,—so light, in fact, that it felt no throb of pity for 
the sick and dying mother. Josey had heard from her 
mother of the aristocratic Miss Bigelow, at whose 
grand wedding governors and senators had been present, 
and she shrank from this high-born woman, who might 
weigh her in the balance and find her sadly wanting. 
So she felt no sympathy with Everard’s touching in¬ 
quiry, “ What shall I do without my mother ?” He 
would do very well indeed, she thought, and as for her¬ 
self, she would rather reign alone at Forrest House than 
share her kingdom with another. How she chafed and 
fretted that she could not begin her triumph at once, 
but must wait two years, at least, and be known as Jo¬ 
sephine Fleming, who held her position in Holburton 
only with her pretty face and determined will. But 
there was no help for it, and, for the present, she must 


JOSEPHINE. 


69 


be content with the knowledge that Everard was hers, 
and that by and by his money would be hers also. To 
do her justice, however, she was just now a good deal in 
Jove with her young husband, and thought of him almost 
as often as of his money, though that was a very weighty 
consideration, and when her mother suggested that there 
was no reason why she should not, to a certain degree, 
be supported by her husband, even if she did not take 
his name, she indorsed the suggestion heartily, and the 
letter she wrote to Everard, in reply to his, contained a 
request for money. 

The letter was as follows : 


“ Holburton, July —. 

“ Dear Everard :—I was so glad to get your letter, 
and oh, my darling, how sorry I am to hear of your dear 
mother’s dangerous illness ! I trust it is not as bad as 
you feared, and hope she may recover. I know I should 
love her, and I mean to try to be what I think she would 
wish your wife to be. I am anxious to know if you told 
her, and what she said. 

“ I have written to Clarence, as Dr. Matthewson bade 
me do, and find that he really was a clergyman ; so there 
can be no mistake about the marriage, and if you do not 
regret it I certainly do not, only it is kind of forlorn to 
know you have a husband and still live apart from him, 
and be denied the privilege of his name. It is for the best, 
however, and I am content to wait your pfeasure. And, 
now, my dear husband, don’t think meanly of me, will you, 
and accuse me of being mercenary. You would not if 
you knew the straits we are driven to in order to meet 
our expenses. Now that I am your wife I wish to take 
lessons in music and French, so as to fit myself for the 
position I hope one day to fill in your family. You must 
not be ashamed of me, and you shall not, if I only have 
the means with which to improve my mind. If you can 
manage to send me fifty dollars I shall make the best 
possible use of it. You do not know how I hate to ask 
you so soon, but I feel that I must in order to carry out 
my plans for improvement. 

“ And now, my darling husband, I put both my arms 
around your neck and kiss you many, many times, and 


60 


Josephine. 


ask you not to be angry with me, but write to me soon 
and send the money, if possible. 

“ Truly, lovingly, faithfully, your wife, Joe.” 

“ I haven’t told more than three falsehoods,” Josey 
said to herself, as she read the letter over. “ I said I 
hoped his mother would recover, and that I knew I should 
love her, and that I wanted the money to pay for music 
and French, when, in fact, I want more a silk dress in 
two shades of brown. And he will send it, too. He’ll 
manage to get it from his father or mother, and I may 
as well drop in at Burt’s and look at the silk this after¬ 
noon, on my way to post this letter.” 

She did drop in at Burt’s and looked at the silk, and 
saw another piece, more desirable every way, and fifty 
cents more a yard. And from looking she grew to cov¬ 
eting, and was sorry that she had not asked for seventy- 
five instead of fifty dollars, as the one would be as likely 
to be forthcoming as the other. Once she thought to 
open her letter and add a P. S. to it, but finally decided 
to wait and write again for the extra twenty-five. The 
merchant would reserve the silk for her a week or more, 
he said, and picturing to herself how she should look in 
the two shades of brown, Josey tripped off to the post- 
office, where she deposited the letter, which Everard 
found upon his table on his return from his mother’s 
grave. It was the silk which in Josey’s mind was the 
most desirable, but the music and the French must be had 
as well, and so she called upon a Mrs. Herring, who gave 
music lessons in the town, and proposed that she should 
have two lessons a week, with the use of piano, and that 
as compensation the lady’s washing, and that of her lit- 
t e girl, should be done by sister Agnes, who was repre¬ 
sented as the instigator of the plan. As the arrangement 
was better for the lady than for Josey, the bargain was 
closed at once, and Mrs. J. E. Forrest took her first lesson 
that very afternoon, showing such an aptitude and eager¬ 
ness to learn that her teacher assured her of quick and 
brilliant success as a performer. The French was man¬ 
aged in much the same way, and paid for in plain sewing, 
which Josey, who was handy and neat with her needle, 
undertook herself, instead of putting it upon her mother 
or poor Agnes, who, on the Monday following, saw, with 


EVE HARD. 


61 


dismay, the basket piled high with extra linen, which she 
was to wash and iron. There was a weary sigh from the 
heavily-burdened woman, and then she took up this added 
task without a single protest, and scrubbed, and toiled, 
and sweat, that Josey might have the accomplishments 
which were to fit her to be mistress of the Forrest 
House. 

Every day Josey passed the shop window at Hurt’s, 
and stopped to admire the silk, and at last fell into the 
trap laid for her by the scheming merchant, who told 
her that three other ladies had been looking at it with a 
view to purchase, and she’d better decide to take it at 
once if she really wanted it; so she took it, and wrote to 
Everard that night, asking why he did not send the fifty 
dollars, and asking him to increase it with twenty-five 
more. 


CHAPTER VIII. 


EVEEAED. 



jE was so giddy, and sick, and faint, when he 
returned to the house from his mother’s 
grave, that he had scarcely strength to reach 
•yj his room, where the first object which caught 
his eye was Josephine’s letter upon the table. 
Very eagerly lie caught it up, and breaking the seal, 
began to read it, his pulse quickening and his heart beat¬ 
ing rapidly as he thought, “She would be so sorry for 
me if she knew.” 

lie was so heart-sore and wretched in his bereavement, 
and he wanted the sympathy of some one,—wanted to 
be petted, as his mother had always petted him in all 
his griefs, and as she would never, pet him again. She 
was dead, and his heart went out with a great yearning 
after his young wife, as the proper person to comfort 
and soothe him now. Had she been there he would 
have declared her his in the face of all the world, and 
laying his aching head in her lap would have sobbed 
out his sorrow. But she was far away, and he was read- 









62 


EVERARD. 


ing her letter, which did not give him much satisfaction 
from the very first. There was an eagerness to assure 
him that the marriage was valid, and he was glad, 
of course, that it was so, and could not blame her foi 
chafing against the secrecy which they must for a time 
maintain ; but what was this request for fifty dollars,— 
this hint that she had a right to ask support from him? 
In all his dread of the evils involved in a secret marriage 
he had never dreamed that she would ask him so soon for 
fifty dollars, when he had not five in the world, and but 
for Rosamond’s generous forethought in sending him 
the ten he would have been obliged to borrow to get 
home. Fifty dollars ! It seemed to the young man like 
a fabulous sum, which he could never procure. For how 
was he to do it ? He had told his father distinctly that 
he was free from debt, that he did not owe a dollar, 
and if he should go to him now with a request for fifty 
dollars what would he say ? It made Everard shiver 
just to think of confronting his stern father with that 
demand. The thing was impossible. “ I can’t do it,” 
he said; and then, in his despair, it occurred to him that 
Josey had no right to make this demand upon him so 
soon ; she might have known he could only meet it by 
asking his father, which was sure to bring a fearful storm 
about his head. It was not modest, it was not nice in 
her, it was not womanly ; Bee would never have done it, 
Rossie would never have done it; but they were different 
—and there came back to him the remembrance of what 
his mother had said, and with it a great horror lest Jose¬ 
phine might really lack that innate refinement which 
marks a true lady. But he would not be disloyal to her 
even in thought; she was his wife, and she had a right to 
look to him for support when she could have nothing else. 
She could not take his name, she could not have his 
society, and he was a brute to feel annoyed because she 
asked him for money with which to fit herself for his 
wife. “ She is to be commended for it,” he thought. 
“ I wish her to be accomplished when I present her to 
Bee, who is such a splendid performer, and jabbers 
French like a native. Oh, if I had the money,” he con 
tinued, feeling as by a revelation that Josephine would 
never cease her importunings until she had what she 
wanted. 


ETERARD. 


68 


But how should he get it? Could he work at some¬ 
th ing and earn it, or could he sell bis watch, his mother’s 
gift when he was eighteen ? 

“ No, not that; I can’t part with that,” he groaned j 
and then he remembered his best suit of clothes, which 
had cost nearly a hundred dollars, and a great many 
hard words from his father. He could sell these in Cin¬ 
cinnati ; he had just money enough to go there and 
back, and he would do it the next day, and make some 
excuse for taking a valise, and no one need be the wiser. 
That w r as the very best thing he could do, and comforted 
with this decision he crept shivering to bed just as the 
clock was striking the hour of eleven. 

Breakfast waited a long time for him the next morn¬ 
ing, and when she saw how impatient the judge was 
growing, Rosamond went to his door and knocked 
loudly upon it, but received no answer, except a faint 
sound like a moan of pain, which frightened her, and 
sent her at once to the judge, who went himself to his 
son’s room. Everard was not asleep, nor did he look as 
if he had ever slept, with his blood-shot, wide-open eyes 
rolling restlessly in his head, which moved from side to 
side as if in great distress. He did not know his father ; 
he did not know anybody ; and said that he was not 
sick, when the doctor came, and he would not be blistered 
and he wouldn’t be bled ; he must get up and have his 
clothes,—his best ones,—and he made Rossie bring them 
to him and fold them up and put them in his satchel, 
which he kept upon his bed all during the two weeka 
when he lay raving with delirium and burning with 
fever induced by the cut on his head, and aggravated by 
the bleeding and blistering which he had without stint. 
Rossie was the nurse who staid constantly with him, and 
who alone could quiet him when he was determined to 
get up and sell his clothes. This was the burden of his 
talk. 

“ I must sell them and get the money,” he would say, 
—Mit, with a singular kind of cunning common to crazy 
people, he never said money before his father. It was 
only tc Rosamond that he talked of that, and once, when 
she sat alone with him, he said : 

“Don’t let the governor know, for your life.” 

“ JTo, I won’t ; you can trust me,” she replied ; then. 


64 


EVERARD. 


while she bathed his throbbing head, she asked : “ Why 
do you want the money, Mr. Everard ? What will you 
do with it ?” 

“ Send it to Joe? he said. “Do you know Joe ?” 

Rossie didn’t know Joe, and she innocently asked : 

“ Whc is he ?” 

“ Who is he ?” Everard repeated : “ ha, ha ! that’s a 
good joke. He ,—Joe would enjoy that ; he is a splendid 
fellow, I tell you.” 

“And you owe him ?” Rossie asked, her heart sinking 
like lead at his prompt reply. 

“ Yes, that’s it; you’ve hit the nail. I owe him and 
I must pay, and that’s why I sell my clothes. I owe him 
money,— him ,—that’s capital.” 

He had told her that he had no debts and she believed 
him, and had been so glad, and thought hs had broken 
from his old associates and habits, and was trying to do 
better. And it was not so at all ; he had not broken 
off ; he still had dealings with a mysterious Joe, who¬ 
ever he might be. Some great hulking fellow, no doubt, 
who drank, and raced, and gambled, and had led Ever¬ 
ard astray. Rossie’s heart was very sad and her voice 
full of sorrow as she asked next : 

“Was it gambling? Was it at play that you in¬ 
curred this debt ?” 

“ Yes, by George, you’ve bit it again !” he exclaimed, 
catching at the word play. “It was a play, and for fun 
I thought at first, but it proved to be the real thing,—a 
lark,—a sell,—a trap. By Jove, I b’lieve it was a "trap, 
and they meant me to fall into it; I do, upon my word, 
and I fell, and now Joe must have fifty dollars from 
me.” 

“ Fifty dollars !” and Rossie gasped at the enormous 
sum. 

Where would he get it? Where could he get it? 
Not from his father, that was certain, and not fiom her, 
for her quarterly interest on her two thousand dollars 
was not due in weeks, and even if it were, it was not. 
fifty dollars. Perhaps Miss Belknap would loan it if she 
were to ask her, and assume the payment herself. But 
in that case she must give the reason, and she would not 
for the world compromise Everard by so much as a 
breath of censure. Bee must think well of him at all 


EVERARD. 


65 

costs, for Rossie’s heart was quite as much set on Bea¬ 
trice’s being the mistress of Forrest House, some day, as 
the mother’s had been. She could not borrow of Miss 
Belknap, but,—Rossie started from her chair as quickly 
as if she had been struck, while her hands involuntarily 
clutched her luxuriant hair, rippling in heavy masses 
down her back. She could do that for Mr. Everard, but 
her face was white to her lips, which quivered a little as 
she resumed her seat, and said : 

“ What is Joe’s other name ? Joe what ?” 

Everard looked at her cunningly a moment, and then 
replied : 

“ Guess !” 

“ I can’t,” she replied, “ I have nothing to start 
from ; nothing to guide me; I might guess all day, and 
not get it.” 

“ Suppose you start with some kind of fruit, say 
pears. What varieties have we in our garden ?” he said ; 
and Rossie answered : 

“ Ther^ are the Seckels. Is it Joe Seckels ?” 

“ No.” 

“ Joe Bartlett 1*" 

“No.” 

“ Joe Bell *t" 

“No.” 

“ Joe Vergelieu ?” 

“No.” 

“Joe Sheldon?” 

“No.” 

“ There’s the Louise Bonne do Jersey. It can’t bt* 
Joe Bonne de Jersey.” 

“No, stupid.” 

“ Well, Flemish Beauty ? It can’t be that.” 

“How do you know? Joe is a oeauty, and a Flemish 
one, if you change the sh into ng. No, try ’em again.” 

“Joe Fleming?” Rossie asked, and with an insane 
chuckle Everard replied : 

“ You bet! Rossie, you are a brick! You are c 
trump ! You’ve hit it exactly ,—Joe Fleming .” 

Rossie had in her pocket a pencil, and on a fit of 
newspaper wrote the name rapidly, and then asked ; 

“Hoes he live in Amherst?” 

“No.” 


66 


EVERARD. 


“ In Ellicottville ?” 

“No.” 

“ Well, then, in Holburton, where you were last 
summer. Didn’t you board with a Fleming ?” 

“You are right again. He lives in Holburton,” 
Everard replied, laughing immoderately at the idea of 
he as applied to Josephine. 

Thus far he had answered all Rossie’s questions cor¬ 
rectly, but when she said, “ Tell me, please, his right 
name. Is it Joel, or Joseph, or what?” the old look of 
cunning leaped into his eyes, and he answered her : 

“No, you don’t. Joe is enough for you to know. 
Besides, why are you questioning me so closely? What 
are you going to do ?” 

“ I’m going to try and get you out of your trouble,” 
Rossie said, and starting up in bed, Everard exclaimed : 

“ Get me out of the scrape ! Oh, Rossie, if you only 
would,—if you only could !” 

“ I can, I will !” Rossie said, emphatically, and he 
continued : 

“ Out of every single bit of it ?—the whole thing, so 
I’ll be free again ?” 

“Yes,” Rossie answered at random ; “I think, I am 
sure, I will. But you must keep very quiet and not get 
excited, or talk. Try to sleep, and I’ll fix it for you 
beautifully.” 

How hopeful she was, and the delirious man believed 
and trusted in her, and promised to sleep while she was 
gone to fix it. 

“But it may take a few days, you know,” she said, 
“ so you must be patient, and wait.” 

He acceded to everything, and closed his eyes as she 
left the room and repaired to her own, where she went 
straight to the glass, and letting out her heavy braids of 
hair, suffered it to fall over her shoulders like a vail. 
Then Rossie studied herself, and saw a thin face, with 
great, wide-open, black eyes, which would look larger, 
more wide-open still, with all that hair gone. What a 
fright she would be without her hair, which was beauti¬ 
ful. Bee Belknap had said so, others had said so, and, 
if she was not mistaken, Everard had said so, too, and 
for his sake she’d like to keep it, though for his sake she 
was deciding to part with it. Maybe he did not think 


THE RESULT. 


67 


it pretty, after all. She wished she knew ; and, yielding 
to a sudden impulse, she went back to his room with all 
her shining tresses about her, and so astonished him 
that he called out: 

“ Halloo, Lady Godiva! Are you going to ride 
through the town, clothed with modesty ?” 

Rossie was not well versed in Tennyson, and knew 
nothing of Lady Godiva, but she said to him : 

“ Mr. Everard, do you think my hair pretty ?” 

“ Nothing extra,” was his reply. “ I’ve seen hair 
handsomer than that. Don’t be vain, Rossie. You will 
never be a beauty, hair or no hair.” 

Her pride was hurt a little, but her mind was made 
up, and retiring to her room and fastening hersell ; n, 
she sat down to write to Joe Fleming. 


CHAPTER IX 


THE RESULT. 



EASON said to her, “ Perhaps there is no such 
person as Joe Fleming. Mr. Everard is 
crazy and does not know what he is saying 
but to this Rossie replied, “ That may be, but 
even then there can be no harm in writing. 
The letter will go to the dead-letter office and no one 
be the wiser, and if there is a Joe, he deserves to have a 
piece of my mind. I shall write any way.” And she 
did write, and this is a copy of the letter : 


“ Forrest House, Rothsay, Ohio, ) 

“ August 3d, 18—. y 

“ Mr. Fleming — Sir : I take the liberty of writing 
to you, because I think you ought to know how sick Mr. 
Everard Forrest is, and how much he is troubled about 
the money he owes you. He was thrown from a car¬ 
riage and hurt, more than ten days ago, and his mother 
died that same night, and you wrote for money, and 
everything together made him very sick and out of his 






68 


THE RESULT. 


head, and that is the way I came to know about you and 
that gambling debt of his. I am Rosamond Hastings, a 
little girl who lives in the family, and Mr. Everard is 
like a brother to me, and I take care of him, and heard 
him talk of Joe and money which he had to pay, and he 
wanted to sell his clothes to raise it, and I found out 
from him that your name was Fleming, and that he 
owed you fifty dollars which must be paid at once. 

“I suppose men would call it a debt of honor , but, 
Mr. Fleming, do you think it right to gamble and entice 
young men like Mr. Everard to play ? I think it is very 
wicked, and dishonorable, and disreputable, and that you 
ought not to expect him to pay. Why, he cannot , for 
he has no money of his own, and his father would not 
give it to him for that, and would be so very angry that 
whatever comes he must never know it,—never. 

“ Now, will you give up the debt and not bother him 
any more ? If you will, please write to him and say so. 
If you will not, write to me, and I shall try what I can 
do, for Mr. Everard must not be troubled with it. 

“Hoping you will excuse me, and that you will re¬ 
form and be a better man, I am, 

“ Yours respectfully, 

“ Rosamond Hastings.” 

“P. S.—You are not to suppose that Mr. Everard 
knows I am writing, for he does not ; nor are you to 
think that he has spoken ill of you in his delirium. On 
the contrary, I imagine that he likes you very much in¬ 
deed, and so I am led to hope that there is much good 
in you, and that you will not only release him, but quit 
gambling yourself.” 

She sealed the letter, and directing it to “Me. Joh 
Fleming, Esq., Holburton, Mass.,” posted it herself, 
and then anxiously waited the answer. 

Three days later, and the clerk in the post-office at 
Holburton said, in reply to Josey’s inquiry for letters : 

“ There’s one here for Mrj Joe Fleming ; that can’t 
be you.” 

“Let me see it,” Josey said ; and when she saw that 
it was from Rothsav, Ohio, she continued : “ It is for 
me, and it is done for a joke. I will take it.” 

Then, hurrying home, she broke the seal and read 


TEE RESULT. 


69 


the curious letter, amid screams of convulsive laughter, 
which brought both her mother and Agnes to her 
side. 

“Look here ; just listen, will you?” she said, “ some¬ 
body thinks I’m a man, and a gambler, and everything 
bad.” And she read the letter aloud, while the tears 
ran down her face, and she grew almost hysterical with 
her glee. “ Did you ever know a richer joke ? What 
a stupid thing that girl must be,” she said. 

But Agnes made no reply, and went quietly back to 
her work, while Josephine read the letter a third time, 
feeling a little sorry for and a little anxious about Ever- 
ard. Rossie’s postscript that he seemed to like her very 
much touched her and brought something like moisture 
to her eyes ; but she never for a moment thought of giv¬ 
ing up the deU. She must have the fifty dollars, for 
the brown silk was nearly finished, and the merchant ex¬ 
pected his money, so she wrote to Rossie as follows : 

“ IIolburton, August 7th, 18—. 

“ Miss Rosamond Hastings :— 

“Your letter is received, and though I am very sorry 
for Mr. Forrest’s illness, and agree with you that it is 
wrong to gamble, I must still insist upon the money, as 
I am in great want of it, and Mr. Forrest will tell you 
that my claim is a just one. I may as well add that 
twenty-five dollars more are due me, which I shall be 
glad to have you send. I have written Mr.- Forrest 
about it, but presume he has not been able to attend to it 

“ Hoping he is better, I am 

“ Yours truly, 

“Joe Fleming.” 

Josephine’s handwriting was large and plain, and she 
took great pains to make it still plainer and more mascu¬ 
line, and Rossie, when she received the letter, had no 
suspicion that it was not written by a man. Hastily 
breaking the seal, she read, with sinking heart, that the 
money must be paid, and, worse than all, that it was 
seventy-five instead of fifty dollars, as she had supposed. 
And she must raise it, and save Mr. Everard from all 
further trouble and anxiety. He was better now, and 
very quiet, and had allowed her to remove the satchel 
of clothes from his bed. Occasionally he spoke to her 


70 


THE RESULT. 


of Joe, and asked if she was sure she could help trim out 
of the scrape. 

“Yes, sure,” was always the reply of the brave lit¬ 
tle girl ; and she must keep her word at the sacrifice 
of what she held most dear, her abundant and beautiful 
hair. 

Rossie’s mind was made up, and, after lunch was over 
she started for Elm Park, where Miss Belknap lived. 
Bee was at home, and glad to see her little friend.. She 
was very fond of Rossie, whose quaint, old-fashioned 
ways amused and rested her ; and she took her at once 
to the pretty blue chamber, which Rossie admired so 
much, and which seemed so in keeping with its lovely 
mistress. All Bee’s tastes were of the most luxurious 
kind, and, as she had no lack of means, she gratified 
them to the full. The fever, which had deprived her of 
her hair, had hurt her pride sorely ; for the wig which 
she was wearing until her own hair grew again was not 
a success, and she chafed against it, and hated herself 
every time she looked in the glass ; and when Rosamond, 
who could not wait lest her courage should fail her, said, 
“Miss Beatrice, are you in earnest about my hair? Will 
you buy it now ?” she answered, 

“ Buy it ? Yes, in a moment.” 

“And give me seventy-five dollars ?” Rossie faltered 
ashamed of herself for asking this enormous sum. 

But it did not at all appall Miss Belknap. Seventy- 
five dollars was nothing if she wished for anything, and 
she did want Rossie’s hair. It was just the color and 
texture of her own, and she could have such a natural¬ 
looking wig made of it. 

“Yes, give you seventy-five dollars willingly;” she 
said. “But it seems very mean and selfish in me to take 
it,” she continued ; and Rossie, fearful lest the bargain 
should fall through, answered eagerly : 

“ Oh, no, it don’t. I want the money very much in¬ 
deed. I am anxious to sell it, and, if you do not buy it, 
I shall go to some one else. But you must not ask me 
why,—I can’t tell that; only, it is not for myself,—it’s 
for a friend ; I don’t think the hair worth seventy-five 
dollars, but that is what I must have, and so I asked it. 
Maybe if you can give me fifty, and loan me twenty' 
five, I canpay it when my allowance is due.” 


THE RESULT. 


n 


11 You conscientious little chit,” Bee said laugh- 
ingly, “ you have not yet learned the world’s creed,— 
take all you can get. I am willing to give you seventy- 
five dollars, and, even at that price, think it cheap. But 
you are a little girl, and will not look badly with short 
hair.” 

With her natural shrewdness and her knowledge of 
some of Everard’s shortcomings, Bee guessed that it was 
for him the sacrifice was made, and, when the barber’s scis¬ 
sors gleamed among the shining tresses, she saw that they 
did not cut too close and make the girl a fright. But 
the loss of her hair changed Rossie very much, and when 
she went back to the Forrest House she shrank from the 
eyes of the servants, and stole up to her own room 
where she could inspect herself freely, and see just how 
she looked. 

“ Oh, how ugly I am, and how big my eyes are !” 
she said, and two hot tears rolled down her cheeks ; but 
she resolutely dashed them away, and thought, “ His 
mother would be so glad if she knew I was doing it for 
him.” 

And the memory of the dead woman, who had been 
so kind to her, helped her. For her sake she could bear 
almost anything, and, putting on her hat, she left the 
house again, going this time to the office of the family 
lawyer, Mr. Russell, a kind, elderly man, who was very 
fond of Rossie, and at once put aside his papers when 
she came in. 

“ Can I do anything for you to-day ?” he asked, and 
she replied : 

“ I’ve come to ask you to write me just such a receipt 
as you would write if somebody owed you seventy-five 
dollars and you paid it in full. Don’t ask me anything, 
only write it, and make it read as if the debtor didn’t 
owe the creditor a penny after the date.” 

Mr. Russell looked curiously at the flushed face raised 
so eagerly to him, and in part guessed her secret. Like 
Bee, he knew of Everard’s expensive habits, and sus¬ 
pected that this money had something to do with him. 
But he merely said : 

“ What name shall I use ? The receipt will read like 
this : ‘ Received of,—blank,—seventy-five dollars,’ and 

so forth. Now, how shall I fill the blank ?” 


72 


TILL* lijjJS uh 1 


Rossie thought a moment, and then replied: 

“ Will it make any difference who writes the re 
ceipt ?” 

“ Not at all; the signature is what gives it its 
value.” 

“ Then will you please give me a form,—a true one, 
you know,—which I can copy and send, and ought I not 
to register the letter to make it safe ?” 

She was quite a little business woman, and the old 
lawyer looked at her admiringly as he gave her the neces¬ 
sary directions, suggesting that a draft or post-office 
order would be better than to send the money. But 
Rossie did not care for so much publicity as she fancied 
drafts and post-office orders would involve. She pre¬ 
ferred to send the bills, a fifty, a twenty, and a five, 
directly to Joe , and she did so that very afternoon, for, 
as good luck would have it, Beatrice asked her to drivo 
to an adjoining town, where she registered and posted 
her letter, and felt as if a weight were lifted from her 
mind. She had no suspicion of Joe’s playing her false. 
He would, of course, return the receipt, and Mr. Everard 
would be free, and her heart was almost as light as her 
head when she returned home and went to Everard’s 
room. That poor shorn head, how it stared at her in the 
glass, and how she tried to brush up the short, wavy hair, 
and make the most of it. But do the best she could, she 
presented rather a forlorn appearance when she went in 
to Everard, and asked him how he was. 

He had missed her very much that day, and greeted 
her with a bright smile, so much like himself, that she 
exclaimed, joyfully : 

“ Oh, Mr. Everard, you are better ; you are almost 
well!” 

He was better, but his mind was still unsettled, and 
running upon the scrape from which Rossie was to ex¬ 
tricate him, and he said to her : 

“ Have you fixed it yet ? Is it all right ?” 

“ Yes, all right,” she answered ; and he continued : 

“ Every single bit right ? Aral cut loose from the 
whole thing ?” 

She thought he was, and soothed him into quiet until 
he suddenly noticed her head, and exclaimed : 

“ Halloa, what have you been doing ? Where’s your 


TEE RESULT. 


7a 

hair ? Have you taken it off and laid it in the drawer 
as mother used to do ? I thought yours was a different 
sort from that; not store hair, but genuine. I say, 
Rossie, you look like a guy.” 

She knew he was not responsible for what he said, 
but it hurt her all the same, and tears sprang to her 
eyes as she answered him : 

“ My hair was very heavy and very warm this hot, 
sultry weather. 1 am sorry you do not like my looks. 
It will grow again in time.” 

That was Rossie’s one comfort. Her hair would 
grow again, and she met bravely the exclamations of her 
girl friends and of the servants, who asked her number¬ 
less questions. But she kept her own counsel, and 
waited impatiently for the assurance that the money had 
gone in safety to Holburton. It came at last, on the 
very day when Everard began to seem like himself, and 
spoke to those about him rationally and naturally. His 
reason had returned, and his first question to Rossie was 
to ask if any letters had come to him during his illness, 
and his second, to interrogate her with regard to her 
hair, and why she had cut it off. She told him .the old 
story of its being heavy and warm, and then hastened to 
bring his letters, of which she had taken charge. She 
was certain that some of them were from Joe Fleming, 
though the handwriting was much finer than that which 
had come to her in that morning’s mail. Joe had sent 
back the receipt without a word of comment, but Rossie 
did not care for that; she only felt that Everard was 
free, and she had the receipt in her pocket, and her face 
was almost pretty in her bright eagerness and gladness 
as she came to his bedside and handed him his letters. 
Three were from college chums, and three from Jose¬ 
phine. These he opened first, beginning with the one 
bearing the oldest date. She had not then heard of his 
mother’s death, and she wrote for more money,—twenty- 
five dollars more, which were absolutely needed. 
Seventy-five in all it was now, and the perspiration 
started from every pore and stood thickly on Everard’s 
forehead and about his lips, as, with an involuntary 
moan, he dropped the letter frffm his nerveless hand and 
turned bis eyes toward Rossie, not with a thought that 
she could help him, only with a feeling that he would 

4 


74 


TEE RESULT. 


tell her, and ask her what to do, and .£ it were not 
better to leave college at once, acknowledge his mar¬ 
riage, and hire out as a day laborer, if nothing better 
offered. 

She saw the hunted, hopeless expression in his eyes, 
and guessed the cause of it. In hers there was a great 
gladness shining, as she said : 

Si I am almost certain that letter is from Mr. Joe 
Fleming, and I have one from him, too, or rather, a 
receipt in full for the gambling debt!” and taking the 
receipt from her pocket, she handed it to Everard, and 
watched him while he read it. 

There it was in black and white, an acknowledgment 
of seventy-five dollars, and a receipt in full of all Ever¬ 
ard Forrest’s indebtedness to Joe Fleming up to that 
date. What did it mean ? What could it mean ? Ever¬ 
ard asked, while through his mind there flitted a vague 
remembrance of something about Joe, and money, and 
the scrape from which Rossie was to extricate him. 

“Rossie, tell me, what do you know of Joe ? What 
does it mean ?” he asked, and then Rossie told him how 
he had raved about a Joe, to whom he said he owed 
money, and how once, when he seemed a little rational, 
she had questioned him, and found out that the man was 
Joe Fleming, who lived in Holburton, and to whom he 
owed fifty dollars which he could not pay. 

“ You had j^our best clothes in your valise on the 
bed, and were going to sell them to get it,” Rossie said, 
“and I felt so sorry for you that I wrote to Mr. Fleming 
myself, and told him what I thought about such debts, 
and how sick and crazy you were, and your mother just 
dead, and you no way to pay, and asked him to give up 
the debt.” 

“ Yes, yes,” Everard gasped while his face grew 
white as ashes ; and still he could not forbear a smile at 
the mistake with regard to Joe’s sex, a mistake of which 
he was very glad, however. “ Y r es,” he continued, “you 
wrote all this, and what was the reply ?” 

“Just what you might expect from the bad, unprin¬ 
cipled, grasping man,” Rossie said, energetically, shaking 
her shorn head. “ I told' him it was wrong to gamble 
and tempt you to play, and told him how sick you were, 
and how angry your father would be, and added that, if 


THE RESULT. 


70 


after all this, he s'ill insisted upon the money, he was 
not to trouble you, but write directly to me, and he wag 
mean enough to do it. He said he was sorry you were 
sick, but he must have the money, and that you owed 
him seventy-five, and you would tell me he had a right 
to ask it.” 

“ Yes,” Everard said again, but the yes was like a 
groan, and every muscle of his face twitched painfully, 
“yes. He wrote this to you, and you raised the money ; 
but how ?” 

Rosamond hesitated a moment, and then replied : 

“Do you remember I told you that Miss Belknap 
once offered to buy my hair ?” 

“Oh, Rossie!” Everard exclaimed, as the truth 
flashed upon him, making the plain face of that heroic 
little girl seem like the face of an angel,—“ oh, Rossie, 
you sold your beautiful hair for me, a scamp, a sneak, a 
coward ! Oh, why did you humiliate me so, and make 
me hate and loathe myself?” and in his great weakness 
and utter shame Everard covered his face with his hands 
and sobbed like a child. 

Rosamond was crying, too,—was shedding bittei 
tears of disappointment that she had made the great 
sacrifice for nothing except to displease Mr. Everard. 

“ Forgive me,” she said at last, “ I thought you 
would like it. I did not want you to sell your clothes,— 
did not want your father to know. I meant to do right. 
I am sorry you are angry.” 

“Angry!” and in the eyes which looked at Rossie 
there was anything but anger. “I am not angry except 
with myself; only I am so mortified, so ashamed. I 
think you the dearest, most unselfish person in the world. 
Who else would have done what you have?” 

“ Oh, ever so many,” Rossie said, “if they were sorry 
for you and loved you ; for, Mr. Everard, I am so sorry, 
and I love you a heap, and then,—and then, I did re 
some because I thought your mother would like it if she 
knew.” 

Rosamond’s lip quivered as she said this, and there 
was such a pitiful look in her soft eyes that Everard 
raised himself in bed, and drawing her toward him, took 
the thin little face between his hands and kissed it ten* 


70 


TEE RESULT . 


derly, while his tears flowed afresh at the mention of his 
dead mother, who had been so much to him. 

“ Rossie,” he said, “ what can I ever do to show you 
how much I appreciate all you have done for, and all 
you are to me ?” 

The girl hesitated a moment, and then said : 

“If you will promise never to have anything to do 
with Joe Fleming, I shall be so happy, for I am sure he 
is a bad man, and leads you into mischief. Will you 
promise not to go near Joe Fleming again?” 

Everard groaned as he answered her : 

“ You do not know what you ask. I cannot break 
with Joe Fleming. I,—oh, Rossie, I am a coward, a 
fool, and I wish I were dead,—I do, upon my word ! 
But there is one thing I can promise you, and I will. I 
pledge myself solemnly, from this day forth, never to 
touch a card of any kind in the w r ay of gambling, never 
to touch a drop of spirits, or a cigar, or a fast horse, or 
to bet, or do anything of which you would not approve.” 

“ I am so glad,” Rossie said, “ and to make it quite 
sure, suppose you sign something just as they do the 
pledge to keep from drinking.” 

He did not quite know what she meant, but he au- 
swered, unhesitatingly : 

“I’ll sign anything you choose to bring me.” 

“ I’m going to write it now,” Rossie said, and the 
next moment she left the room, and Everard was free to 
finish his letters alone. 

Taking the second one from Josephine, he read that 
she was sorry to hear of his affliction, and wished she 
could comfort him, and that it must be a consolation for 
him to know that his mother was in heaven, where he 
would one day meet her if he was a good man. 

This attempt at piety disgusted Everard, who knew 
how little Josephine cared for anythhig sacred, and 
how prone she was to ridicule what she called pious 
people. 

Immediately following this mention of his mother, 
she said she was missing and longing for him so much, 
and hoped he would write at once, and send her the 
money which she was obliged to ask him. Then she 
added the following : 

“I find myself in rather a peculiar position. So long 


TUB RESULT. 


7*5 


as 1 am known as Miss Fleming, I shah of c.mse be sub¬ 
ject to the attentions of gentlemen, and what am I to 
do ? Shall I go on as usual,—discreetly, of course,—and 
receive whatever attentions are paid to me, never allow¬ 
ing any one to get so far as an offer? I ask you this 
because I wish to please you, and because, since my mar 
riage, it seems as if so many men were inclined to be 
polite to me. Even old Captain Sparks, the millionaire, 
has asked me to ride after his fast horses ; and as there 
was no reason which I could give him why I should not, 
I went, and he acted as silly as an old fool well can act. 
Tell me your wishes in the matter, and they shall be to 
me commands.” 

For an instant Everard felt indignant at Captain 
Sparks for presuming to ride with and say silly things 
to Josephine, but w T hen he reflected a moment he knew 
that to the captain there was no reason why he should 
not do so. Josephine was to him a young, marriageable 
maiden, and rumor said that the old man was looking 
for a fourth wife, and as he would, of course, look only 
at the young girls, it was natural for him to single out 
Josephine as an object of favor. 

“ Josey must, of course, hold her place as an unmar¬ 
ried person,” he thought, “ but oh ! the horror of this de¬ 
ception. I’d give worlds to undo the work of that night.” 

He thought so more than ever when he read the third 
and last letter, in which, after expressing her sorrow and 
concern for his sickness, she told him of her correspond¬ 
ence with Rosamond, and which, as it gives a still clearer 
insight into the young lady’s character, we give, in part, 
to the reader : 

“ Hear Everard :—What do you suppose has hap¬ 
pened ? Why, I laughed until I nearly split my sides, 
and I almost scream every time I think of the funny let 
ter I got from Rosamond Hastings, the little girl who 
lives with you, and who actually thinks I am a man , a 
bad, good-for-nothing, gambling, swearing man , who 
leads y ou into all sorts of scrapes, and to whom you owe 
money. It seems she gathered this when you were crazy, 
*nd took it upon herself to write to Mr. Joe Fleming,-- 
that’s what she called me,-—and lecture him soundly on 
his badness. You ought to hear her once ; but I’ll keep 


78 


THE RESULT. 


the letter and show you. She wished me to give up the 
debt, which she took for granted was a gambling one, but 
said if I would not I must write to her and not trouble 
you. Now, I suppose it would have been generous and 
nice in me to say I did not care for the money, but you 
see I did ; I must have it to pay my bills; and so I wrote 
to her and said you would tell her my claim was a 
just one, if she asked you about it. In due time she 
sent me seventy-five dollars, though how she raised it I 
am sure I cannot guess, unless she coaxed it from your 
father, and I hardly think she did that, as she seemed in 
great fear lest he should know that you owed Joe 
Fleming ! She is a good business woman,—for, accom¬ 
panying the money was a receipt, correctly drawn up, and 
declaring you discharged in full from all indebtedness 
to me. I wonder what the child would have done if I 
had not returned it, and just for the mischief of it I 
thought once I wouldn’t, for a while at least, and see 
what she would do. But Agnes made such a fuss that 
I thought better of it, and shall send the receipt in the 
same mail which takes this to you. By the way, you’ve 
no idea how much Agnes has you and your interests at 
heart. I believe, upon my word, she thinks you did a 
dreadful thing to marry me as you did, and she says her 
prayers in your behalf, to my certain knowledge, three 
or four times a day. Verily, it ought to make your 
calling and election sure. 

“ Dr. Matthewson was in town yesterday, and in¬ 
quired particularly for you. I told him of your mother’s 
death, and that I had written to Clarence as he bade me 
do, and made inquiries about him, and had not received 
a very good report of his character as a clergyman. He 
took it good-humoredly, and said that the Gospel didn’t 
agree with him very well. I like the doctor immensely, 
he is so amusing and friendly. I hope you will not care 
because I told him of Rosamond’s mistake, and showed 
him her letter. How he did roar ! Why, he actually 
laid down on the grass, and rolled and kicked, and would 
not believe me till I showed him the letter. He left 
uown this morning, saying he should be here again in 

fall, and would like to board with mother. 

“ How I hate this life,—planning how to get your 
bread and butter,— and how glad I shall be when I am 


THE RESULT. 


n 


out 01 it ; but I mean to be patient and bear it, knowing 
what happiness there is in the future for me. When 
shall I see you, I wonder? Will you not come as soou 
as you are able to travel and spend the remainder of 
your vacation with me? You will at least stop here on 
the way to Amherst, and for that time I live. 

“ Lovingly yours, Jos.” 

It would be impossible to describe the nature of 
Kverard’s feelings as he read this letter, which seemed 
to him coarse, and selfish, and heartless in the extreme. 
Couldn’t Josephine understand such a character as 
Rossie’s, or appreciate the noble thing she had done? 
Could she only see in it a pretext for laughing till “she 
split her sides,” and was it a nice thing in her to tell Dr. 
Matthewson of the letter, and even show it to him, 
making him roll on the grass, and roar and kic/c in her 
presence ? Had she no delicacy or refinement, to allow 
such £ thing ? Would any man dare do that with Bee or 
even Rossie, child though she was ? Was Josey devoid of 
that womanly dignity which puts a man always on his best 
behavior ? lie feared she was, he said sadly to himself, 
as he recalled the free and easy manner he had always 
assumed with her. flow many times had he sat with his 
feet higher than his head, and smoked directly in her 
face, or stretching himself full length upon the grass 
while she sat beside him, laid his head in her lap and 
talked such slang as he would blush to have Rossie hear; 
and she had laughed, and jested, and allowed it all, or 
at the most reproved him by asking if he were not 
ashamed of himself. Josey was not modest and woman¬ 
ly, like his mother, and Bee, and Rosamond. She was 
not like them at all, and for a moment there swept over 
the young man such a feeling of revulsion and disgust 
that his whole being rose up against the position in 
which he was placed, and from his inmost soul he cried 
out, “I cannot have it so!” 

He had sown the wind, and he was beginning to reap 
the whirlwind; and it was a very nervous, feverish 
patient which Rossie found when she came back to him, 
bringing the paper he was to sign, and which was to 
keep him straight. She called it a pledge, and it read : 

“ I hereby solemnly promise never to drink a drop of 


80 


THE RESULT. 


liquor, never to smoke a pipe or cigar, never to race witfc 
fast horses, never to play cards or any other game foi 
money, never to bet, and to have just as little to do with 
Joe Fleming as I possibly can. 

“ Signed by me, at the Forrest House, this-■ day of 

August, 18—.” 

(i There 1” Rossie said, as she read it to him, ami 
offered him the pen ; “ you’ll sign that and then be very 
safe.” 

“ Rossie,” he said vehemently, “ I wish to Heaven I 
could honorably subscribe to the whole of it, but I can 
not. I must erase the part about Joe Fleming. I cannot 
explain to you why, but I must keep my acquaintance 
with Joe, but I’ll promise not to be influenced in that 
direction any more. Will that do ?” 

“ Yes, but I did so hope you would break with him 
entirely. I know be makes you bad. You told me when 
you came home you had no debts, and I believed you, 
and yet you owed this man seventy-five dollars, and I 
was so sorry to find you did not tell me true.” 

Rossie’s ej r es were full of tears as she said this, for 
losing faith in Everard had hurt her sorely, but he has¬ 
tened to reassure her. 

“Rossie,” be said, “I did not know of this debt 
then. It has come up since. What I told you was told 
in good faith. Bad as I am, I would not tell a deliberate 
lie, and you must believe me.” 

She did believe him, and watched him as he put bis 
pen through the sentence, “ have just as little to do with 
Joe Fleming as I possibly can,” and then signed his 
name to the paper. 

“ There !” he said, as he handed it to her with a 
sickly effort to smile. Keep it, Rossie, and if I break 
that pledge, may I never succeed in anything I under¬ 
take so long as I live ; and now bathe my head with the 
coldest ice-water in the house, for it feels as if there was 
a bass drum in it.” 

He was very restless and nervous, and did not im¬ 
prove as fast as the doctor had said he would, if onct 
his reason returned. Indeed, for a few days ho did not 

eeem to improve at all, and Beatrice and Rosamond both 
nursed him tenderly, and pitied him so much when they 



THE RESULT. 


81 


saw him lying so weak and still, with his eyes shut, and 
the great tears rolling down his face. 

44 It’s for his mother,” Rossie whispered to her com¬ 
panion, and her own tears gathered as she remembered 
the sweet woman whose grave was so fresh in the church¬ 
yard. 

But it was not altogether for the dead mother that 
Everard’s tears were shed. It was rather from remorse 
and sorrow for the deed he would have given so much 
to undo ; for he was conscious of an intense desire to be 
free from the chain which bound him. Not free from 
Josephine, lie tried to make himself believe, for if that 
were so he would indeed be the most wretched of men, 
but free from his marriage vow, made so rashly. How 
was it that he was tempted to do it ? he asked himself, as 
he went over in his mind with the events of that night. 
He was always more or less intoxicated with Josephine’s 
beauty when he was with her, and he remembered how 
she had bewitched and bewildered him with the touch of 
her soft hands, and sight of her bare arms and neck, 
She had challenged him to the act, and Dr. Matthewson 
had given him the wine, which he knew now must have 
clouded his reason and judgment, and so he was left to 
his fate. And a terrible one it seemed, as, in his weak¬ 
ness and languor, he looked at it in all its aspects, and 
saw no brightness in it. Even Josephine’s beauty 
seemed fading into nothing, though he tried so hard to 
keep his hold on that, for he must hold to something,— 
must retain his love for her or go mad. But she was so 
unlike Beatrice, so unlike Rosamond, so unlike what his 
mother had been, and they were his standards for all 
that was noble, and pure, and sweet in womankind. Josey 
was selfish and unrefined ; he could not put it in any 
milder form when he remembered the past as connected 
with her, and remembered how she had ridiculed little 
Rossie Hastings, whose letter she had shown to Dr. 
Matthewson. How plainly he could see that scene, when 
the doctor rolled upon the grass and roared and kicked, 
and Josephine laughed with him at the generous, unsel¬ 
fish child who, to save him, had sacrificed her only 
beauty. And Josephine was his wife, and lie must not 
cease to respect her one iota, for that was his only chance 
for happiness, and he struggled so hard to keep her in hia 

4 * 


THE RESULT 


heart and love that it is not strange the great drops of 
sweat stood thickly on his brow, or that the hot tears at 
intervals rolled down his cheeks. 

It was Rossie who brushed them away, Rossie who 
wiped the sweat from his face, and whispered to him once : 

“Don’t cry, Mr. Everard. Your mother is so happy 
where she has gone, and I don’t believe she has lost all 
care for you either, she loved you so much when she was 
here.” 

Then Everard broke down entirely, and holding Ros 
sie’s little, brown, tanned hands in his, said to her : 

“ It isn’t that, though Heaven knows how much I 
loved my mother, and how sorry I am she is dead ; but 
there are troubles worse than death, and I am in one now, 
and the future looks so dark and the burden so heavy to 
carry.” 

“ Can I help you bear it ?” Rossie asked, softly, with 
a great pity in her heart for this young man who had 
given way like a child. 

“ No, Rossie, nobody can help me,—nobody,” he said; 
and after a moment Rossie asked timidly: “Is it Joe 
B’leming again ?” 

“Yes, Rossie, Joe Fleming again;” and Everard 
could scarcely restrain a smile, even in his grief, at this 
queer mistake of Rossie’s. 

In her mind Joe Fleming was a dreadful man, through 
whom Mr. Everard had come to grief, and she ventured 
at last to speak of him to Beatrice as somebody of whom 
Everard had talked when he was crazy, and who had led 
him into a great trouble of some kind. 

“ And that’s what ails him now, and keeps him so 
weak and low, and makes him cry like a girl,” she said. 

And then Beatrice resolved to help the sick youth, if 
possible, and that afternoon when she sat alone with him 
for a few moments, she said to him : 

“ Everard, I am quite sure that something is troubling 
you, something which retards your recovery. I do not 
ask to know what it is, but if money can lighten it let 
me help you, please. I have so much more than I know 
what to do with. Let me lend you some, do.” 

“ Oh, Bee,” Everard cried, “ don’t talk to me that 
way ; you will kill me, you and Rossie together ; and 
you can’t help me. Nobody can. It is past all help.” 


TEE RESULT. 


She did rot at all know what he meant, but with her 
knowledge of what money could do, she felt sure it 
could help, and so she said": 

“ Not so bad as that, I am sure. You have probably 
been led astray by some designing person, but there is 
always a backward path, you know, and you will take it 
sure ; and if you should want money, as you may, will 
you ask me for it, Everard ? Will you let me give it to 
you, as if I were your sister ?” 

He did not know ; he could not tell what he might 
do in sore need, for he felt intuitively that the call on 
him for money, commenced so soon, would increase with 
every year ; so he thanked her for her kind offer, which, 
he said, he would consider, should the time ever come 
when he wanted help. 

For ten days more Everard kept his room, and then 
arose suddenly one morning and said that he was able to 
go back to college, where he ought to have been two 
weeks ago, for he was getting far behind his class, and 
would have to study hard to overtake and keep up with 
it as he meant to do. Nothing could restrain him ; go 
he must, and go he did, early one morning in September, 
before the people of Roth say were astir. He had held 
a short conference with Rosamond, and bidden her tell 
the postmaster to forward to Amherst any letters which 
might come to him, and on no account let them go to 
the Forrest Plouse. And Rossie had promised to 
comply with all his wishes, and pressed upon him a 
twenty-dollar bill, which she made him take, because, as 
she said, she did not need it a bit, and should just 
squander it for peanuts, and worsteds, and things which 
would do her no good. It was a part of her quarterly 
interest, and she could do what she liked with it, and so 
Everard took it, and felt humiliated, and hated himself, 
especially as he knew just where the money would go. 
A letter from Josephine had come to him, asking for 
more funds, with which to replenish her wardrobe for 
the autumn. They had no boarders now except Dr. 
Matthewson, who was occasionally in town for a day or 
two and stopped with them, and Mrs. Fleming did not 
get as much sewing as usual, and so Josey was compelled 
to come to her husband for money, though sorely against 
her will, for she feared she must seem mercenary to him, 


64 


HUSBAND AND WIFE. 


and she hoped he would forgive her and love her just 
the same. 

It was this letter which had determined him to return 
to Amherst without delay. On his way thither, .he 
should stop in Holburton over a train, and tell Josephine 
how impossible it was for him to supply her demands 
until in a position to help himself. 

“If father would only give me something more than 
my actual needs,” he thought; and, strangely enough, his 
father did. 

Possibly the memory of the dead mother pleaded for 
her boy, and prompted the judge to give his son at part¬ 
ing a fifty-dollar bill over and above what he knew was 
needed for board and tuition. 

“ Make it go as far as you can ; it ought to last you 
the whole year,” he said, and Everard’s spirits sank like 
lead as he foresaw the increasing drain there would be 
on him, and felt how impossible it would be to ask his 
father for more. 

There was still his best suit of clothes ; and a little 
diamond pin and a ring Rossie had given him, and his 
books, which he could sell, and perhaps he could find 
something to do after study hours which would bring 
him money. He might write for the magazines or illus¬ 
trate stories ; he had a natural taste for drawing, and 
could dash off a sketch from nature in a very few min¬ 
utes. He could do something, he assured himself, and 
his heart was a little lighter, when he at last said good- 
by to Rossie and his father, and started northward for 
college and Josephine. 


CHAPTER X. 

HUSBAND AND WIFE. 

E had sent no word of his coming, for he did 
not know just when he should reach Holbur 
ton. His strength might fail him, and he be 
obliged to stop for the night on the road. 
But he kept up wonderfully, and arrived at 
Holburton on the same train which had taken him there 










HUSBAND AXD WIFE. 


83 


from EHiooUville on that memorable day which he would 
gladly have stricken out. There was no one at the little 
station except the ticket agent, who, being new to the 
place, scarcely noticed him as he crossed the platform 
and passed down the street toward the brown house on 
the common. There had been a storm of wind and rain 
the previous day, and the hop vine, which in the summer 
grew over the door, was torn down and lay upon the 
ground. A part of the fence, too, was nearly down, and 
a shutter hung by one hinge and swayed to and fro in 
the autumn wind. Taken as a whole, the house presented 
rather a forlorn appearance, and he found himself won¬ 
dering how he had ever thought it so attractive. And 
still he felt his blood stir quickly at the thought of meet¬ 
ing Josephine again, and he half looked to see her come 
flying out to meet him as she had sometimes done. But 
only the cat, who was chasing a grasshopper through the 
uncut grass, came to welcome him by purring and rub¬ 
bing herself against his legs as he went up the walk. 

Agnes let him in,—the same sun-bonnet on her head 
he had seen so many times, her sleeves rolled up, and 
her %vide apron smelling of the suds she had come 
from. 

At sight of him she uttered an exclamation of sur¬ 
prise, and for a moment her tired face lighted up with 
something like pleasure ; then that expression faded and 
was succeeded by an anxious, startled look, as she glanced 
nervously down the road as if expecting some one to 
whom she would give warning. Mrs. Fleming was in 
Boston, seeing to some mortgage on the house, and Josey 
had gone to ride, she said, as she led the way into the 
little parlor, which, even to Everard’s not very critical 
eye, presented an appearance of neglect unusual in Mrs, 
Fleming’s household. Evidently it had not been cared 
for that day, for the chairs were moved from their 
places, two standing close together, just where their last 
occupants had left them. There were crumbs of cake 
on the carpet, and two empty wineglasses on the table, 
with a fly or two crawling lazily on the inside and sip¬ 
ping the few red drops left there. 

As Agnes opened the window and brushed up the 
crumbs, she said she was intending to right up the room 
i>efore Josephine oarne home, then, bidding Everard 


86 


HUSBAND AND WIFE . 


make himself as comfortable as possible, she left him 
alone, and went back to her work in the kitchen. 

Taking a chair near the window, where he could corn- 
mand a view of the street, the young man sat waiting 
for Josephine, until he heard at last a loud, long laugh, 
which was almost a shriek, and, looking through the 
shutters of the open window, he saw first a cloud of dust 
and then a low buggy coming rapidly across the com 
mon, in the direction of the house. In the buggy sat 
Captain Sparks, the millionaire, whose penchant for 
young and pretty girls was well known throughout the 
entire county. Short, fat and grizzly, he sat with folded 
arms, smiling complacently upon the fair blonde, who, in 
her brown silk dress of two shades, with a long white 
lace scarf twisted round her hat and flying far behind, 
held the reins of the high-mettled horse, and was driving 
furiously. In his surprise and indignation, Everard 
failed to note how beautiful she was, with the flush of 
excitement on her cheeks and the sparkle in her eye ; he 
only thought she was his wife, and that Captain Sparks 
lifted her very tenderly to the ground, and held her by 
the shoulders a moment, while he said something which 
made her turn her head coquettishly on one side, as she 
drew back from him, and said : 

“ You mean old thing ! You ought to be ashamed !” 

Everard had heard this form of expression many 
times. Indeed, it was her favorite method of reproof 
for liberties of speech or manner, and meant nothing at 
all. Everard knew it did not, and Captain Sparks knew 
it did not, and held her hand the tighter ; but she drew 
it away at last, and ran gayly up the walk, throwing him 
a kiss from the tips of her daintily-gloved hand. Then 
she entered the side door, and Everard heard her say to 
Agnes, who was hurrying to meet her and announce his 
arrival: 

“ Upon my word, if you are not in that old wash-dud 
yet! I’ll bet you haven’t touched the parlor, and the 
captain is coming at eight o’clock. Wha-a-t and her 
voice fell suddenly, as Agnes said something to her in a 
tone too low for Everard to hear. 

That it concerned him and his presence there he was 
sure, and he was not greatly surprised when the next 
instant the door opened swiftly, and Josephine rushed 


HUSBAND AND WIFE. 


M 

headlong into his arms. He opened them involuntarily 
to withstand the shock, rather than to receive her ; but 
the result was the same,—she laid her golden head on his 
bosom and sobbed like a child. Josey could feign a cry 
admirably when she chose to do so, and now she trem¬ 
bled and shook, and made it seem so real that Everard 
forgot everything except that she was very fair and un¬ 
deniably glad to see him. Yery gently he soothed her, 
and made her lift her head, that he might look into her 
face, and hated himself for thinking that for such a 
thunder-gust as she had treated him to her eyes were not 
very red, nor her cheeks very wet. But she was so hap¬ 
py, and so glad he had come, and so sorry she was not 
there to receive him. 

“ That old fool, Captain Sparks, had recently taken to 
haunting her with attentions, and as the easiest way to 
be rid of him, she had consented for once to ride with 
him, and had taken the occasion to tell him it could not 
be repeated. But then it was rare fun to drive his fast 
horse,—she was so fond of driving, and Blucher was so 
fleet and spirited, and had brought them up to the house 
in such style. Did Everard see them,—and what did he 
think ?” 

“ Yes, I saw you, and thought you were enjoying it 
hugely,” Everard said ; and Josey detected something in 
his tone which made her suspect that he did not quite 
like the captain’s manner of lifting her from the car¬ 
riage. But she was equal to the emergency, and made 
fun of the old man, and called him a love-sick muff, and 
took him off to the life, and then, in a grieved, martyred 
kind of way, said, “ it was rather hard for her to know 
just what to do, situated as she was, married, and yet not 
married, in fact. She would not for the world do any¬ 
thing to displease Everard, but must she decline all at¬ 
tention and make a nun of herself, and how soon could 
she let her marriage be known ?” 

“ Not yet, Josey,” Everard said, explaining to her 
rapidly how much worse the matter was for them now 
his mother was dead. 

She might, and would, have helped them when the 
orisis came, but now there was no one to stand between 
him and his father, who was sure to take some desperate 


C8 


HUSBAND AND WIFE, 


step if lie knew of the rash marriage before his son was 
through college. 

“We must wait, Josey, two years, sure,” he said 3 
and, because she could not help herself, Josephine 
assented, very sweetly, though with something of an 
injured air, and managed next to speak of money, and 
asked if he hated' her for being such a leech. 

“ You mustn’t, for I couldn’t help it,” she said, and 
she leaned on his arm, and buttoned and unbuttoned his 
coat, and caressed him generally, as she continued : 
“Maybe you didn’t knowhow poor the bride was, or 
you would not have taken her. Mother is in Boston 
now about some mortgage on the house, and it takes so 
much to live decently, and my lessons cost frightfully ; 
but you are glad to have me improve, dearest ?” 

Of course he was glad, he said, but he had no means 
of getting money except from his father, and if she 
knew to what humiliation he was subjected when he 
asked for funds, she would spare him all she could. By 
and by, when he had money of his own, there should be 
no stint, but now she must be economical, he told her; 
and then she spoke of Rosamond, and asked who and 
what that queer little old-fashioned thing could be. 

“Such a lecture as she gave Mr. Joe Fleming for 
gambling, and leading you wrong generally. Why, I 
laugh till I cry every time I think of it,” Josey said, 
proving the truth of what she asserted by laughing 
heartily. 

But the laugh grated on Everard, as in some way an 
affront to Rossie, and he shrank from saying much of 
her, excepjt to tell who she was, and how she came to be 
living at the Forrest House. 

“And was it her own money she sent me, or where 
did she get it ? Has she the open sesame to your father’s 
purse? If so, you had better appty to her, when in 
need,” Josey said ; and in a sudden spasm of fear lest in 
Borne way Rossie should become a victim of the greed ho 
was beginning dimly to comprehend, he told the story 
of the hair, but withheld the name of Beatrice, from a 
feeling that he would rather Josephine should not know 
of his acquaintance with her. 

“What do you think of a girl who could do so gem 
erous a thing as that for a great lout like me ?” he asked. 


TTUSBAND AND WIFE . 


and Josephine replied, “I think she was a little goose ! 
Catch me parting with my hair ; though I am glad she 
did it, as it relieved you, and was of great benefit to Joe 
Fleming !” 

She laughed lightly, but Everard was disgusted and in- 
dignant at her utter want of appreciation of the sacrifice 
which few girls would have made. She saw the shadow 
on his face, and, suspecting the cause, changed her tactics, 
and became greatly interested in Rosamond, and said that 
she must be a generous, self-denying little thing, and she 
wished Everard would allow her to write to her in her 
own proper character as his wife. But to this he would 
not consent. He was not deceived by this change in her 
manner. He knew Josey had expressed her real senti¬ 
ments at first, and there was in his heart a constantly- 
increasing sense of disappointment and loss of something, 
he scarcely knew what. Nor could all Josephine’s wiles 
and witcheries lift the shadows from his face, and make 
him feel just as he used to do when he sat alone in the 
little parlor with her at his side. She was very charming 
in her brown silk, which fitted her admirably, and 
Beatrice herself could not have been softer, and sweeter, 
and gentler than she tried to be ; but there was something 
lacking, and though Everard put bis arm around her 
slender waist, and her golden head was pillowed on his 
shoulder, his heart beat with heavy throbs of pain as he 
spoke of her last letter to him, in which she had asked 
for more money. It had been his intention to give her 
all he had, and hid her make it last the year, hut he 
changed liis mind suddenly, and handed her only twenty 
dollars, and told her it was by mere chance that he was 
fortunate enough to have so much to give her, and that 
he hoped she would do the best she could with it ; for, 
though he would gladly give her ten times the amount, 
if he could, the thing was impossible. 

She thanked him graciously, and said she meant to be 
very economical, only things did cost so much, and as 
Mrs. Forrest, she felt that she must dress better than 
Josephine Fleming had done. If he said so she would 
take in sewing, or even washing, if he liked,—anything 
to show him she really meant to please him. He vetoed 
the washing and the sewing, of course, and then, as ho 
heard the rattling of dishes in the adjoining room, he 


AFT Eli TWO YEARS. 


SO 


hastened to say that he was to leave on the half-past 
seven train, so as to reach Amherst that night. There 
was a passionate protest, and a pretty, pouting declara¬ 
tion that he did not care for her any more, and then she 
allowed herself to be comforted, and felt really relieved 
when she remembered Captain Sparks and his engage¬ 
ment for eight o’clock. There were waffles for supper, 
—Everard’s favorites,—and Josephine sat by him and 
buttered them for him, and made his tea, and helped 
him to peaches and cream, and between times studied the 
face which baffled and puzzled her so, with its new ex¬ 
pression, born of remorse and harrowing unrest. She 
had married a boy whom she thought to mold so easily, 
but she found him now a man, for whom she felt a little 
awm and fear, and there was something of real timidity 
and shyness in her manner when at last she said good- 
by to him, and watched him through the darkness as he 
went rapidly from her to the train which was to take him 
on his way to Amherst. 


CHAPTER XI. 

AFTER TWO YEARS. 

is not my intention to linger over the inci¬ 
dents of the next two years, or more than 
glance at the Forrest House, where Rosa¬ 
mond Hastings laughed, and played, and 
romped, gaining each day health, and 
strength, and girlish beauty, but retaining always the 
same straightforward, generous, self-denying, truthful 
character which made her a favorite with every one. 
To Everard she was literally a good angel, and never 
was a son watched more carefully by an anxious mother 
than she watched and guarded him. She wrote him 
letters of advice and sage counsel such as a grand¬ 
mother of seventy might have written, and which 
frequently- had in them some word of warning against 
bad associates in general, and Joe Fleming" in par¬ 
ticular She knew he had not broken with Joe alto- 






AFTER TWO YEARS. 


91 


gether, for he told her so, and more than once in his sore 
need he had taken the money she never failed to send 
him when her quarterly allowance was paid. But for 
the rest, he was manfully keeping to the pledge which 
she had drawn for him to sign. Only once in all the two 
years had he ventured to ask his father for more money 
than that close-dealing man chose to give him, and the 
storm of anger which that request had evoked determined 
him never to repeat the act. He sent his father’s letter to 
Josephine, that she, too, might understand how difficult 
it was for him to supply her constantly increasing wants, 
and for a time the effect was good ; but an inordinate 
fondness for dress was one of Josey’s weaknesses, and 
having once indulged it to a certain extent she could not 
readily deny herself, especially as she felt she had a right 
to a part, at least, of the Forrest money. So she wrote to 
Everard again and again, sometimes for five dollars, some¬ 
times for ten, or twenty, and when she found that sooner 
or later it came she ventured to ask for more, and at last 
demanded fifty dollars, which she needed for furs, as her 
old ones were worn out. Then Everard sold the little 
diamond pin his mother had given him, and parted with 
it almost without a pang, he was getting so accustomed 
to these things. He had long before parted with his 
best suit of clothes, and from the most exquisitely dressed 
young man in college he was fast becoming the plainest, 
and was getting the reputation of penuriousness in every¬ 
thing. His first-class boarding-house was exchanged for 
a third-rate club, where the poorest young men lived ; 
he wrote articles for the magazines and sold them for 
whatever he could get, and once, when the janitor was 
sick for a week, he took his place, and earned a few dol¬ 
lars with which to swell the amount he found it neces¬ 
sary to keep on hand for the woman who sported a 
handsomer wardrobe than the greatest lady in Holbur* 
ton. 

Of course the world must have some explanation for 
this, or the girl’s reputation be ruined forever. And 
Josey made the explanation, and said a distant relative 
of her father’s had died in Ireland, and left her a few 
pounds to do with as she liked. And in this story there 
was a semblance of truth, for a maiden aunt, who for 
years had lived in Portrnsh, on the northern coast of 


AFTER TWO TEARS. 


92 

Ireland, and taken lodgers daring the summer season, 
did die and leave to her grand-nieces in America the sum 
of fifty pounds, which was ostensibly divided between 
Agnes and Josephine, though the latter had the greater 
share, and immediately appeared on the street in an ex¬ 
pensive velvet sack, which attracted much attention and 
elicited a great many remarks from those who were 
watching the career of the young girl. She was not 
popular, for with her fine dress she had also put on all 
sorts of airs, and her manner was haughty and offensive 
in the extreme, while her flirtations with gentlemen were 
so marked as to make her notorious as a heartless and 
unprincipled coquette. Captain Sparks had laid himself 
and his immense fortune at her feet, only, of course, to 
be refused ; but she had told him no so sweetly, with 
tears in her liquid blue eyes, that he was not more than 
half convinced that she meant it, and dangled still in her 
train of hangers-on. Dr. Matthewson, too, was there 
frequently, and people had good reasons for thinking 
him the favored one, judging from the familiar relations 
in which they seemed to stand to each other. Once in a 
great while Everard himself went over to Holburton, but 
he never stopped more than a few hours at the most, and 
was seldom seen in the street with Josephine, who was 
supposed to have lost her hold on him,—and so in fact 
she had ; all his fancied love for her was dead, and her 
beauty never moved him now, or made his pulses quick¬ 
en one whit faster than their wont. She was his wife, 
and he accepted the fact, and resolved to make the best 
of it, but the future held nothing bright in store for him. 
On the contrary, he shrank from it with a kind of nerv¬ 
ous terror, and felt no throb of joy when his college 
days drew near their close, and he knew that he stood 
first in his class, and should graduate with every possible 
honor. He had worked hard for that, but it was more to 
please Beatrice and Rosamond than for any good to 
himself that he had studied early and late, and made 
himself what he was. They were coming on from Roth- 
say with his father, to see him graduated, and hear his vale¬ 
dictory, for that honor was awarded him, and he had en¬ 
gaged rooms for them at a private house where he knew 
they would be more comfortable than at the hotel. Rossie 
was all eagern "^d excitement, and wrote frequently 


AFTER TWO TEARS . 


to Everard, telling him once that if Joe Fleming was 
there not to let him know who she was, but to be sure 
to point him out to her, as she had a great desire to see a 
real gambler and blackleg. She had recently applied this 
last term to Joe Fleming, and Everard smiled when he read 
the Tetter, but felt a great pang of fear lest Josephine 
fhould thrust herself upon the notice of his father and 
Beatrice. He had given her no hint that her presence 
would be agreeable to him, but he knew she did not 
need it, and was not at all disappointed when he received 
a note from her saying that she was coming down to see 
him graduate, but should not trouble him more than she 
could help, as a friend who lived about a mile from 
town had asked her to spend a few days with her, and 
be present at the exercises. She should, of course, 
expect him to call and pay her any little attention which 
lie consistently could. 

It was long since Josephine had attempted anything 
like love-making with Everard, for she felt that he 
understood her perfectly now, and had no respect what- 
ever for her. He had found her a sham, just as Rossis 
had said she was, and had accepted his fate with a bit¬ 
terness and remorse such as few men of his age had ever 
experienced. He did not believe in her at all, and when¬ 
ever he was witli her, and met the soft, pleading glance 
of the eyes which had once so fascinated and bewitched 
him, he only felt indignant and disgusted, for he knew 
how false it all was, and that the eyes which looked so 
beseechingly up to him would the next hour rest as lov¬ 
ingly upon Dr. Matthewson, or Captain Sparks, or any 
other man whom she deemed worthy of her notice. 
Once, when he was in Holburton, he accidentally discov¬ 
ered that the washing and ironing, with which Agnes 
seemed always busy, were done to pay the music bills and 
sundry other expenses, for which he had sent the money, 
and in his surprise he asked a few leading questions and 
learned more than he had dreamed of. As the worm 
will turn when trodden upon, so Agnes, who chanced to 
be smarting under some fresh indignity imposed upon 
her, turned "upon her tyrant and told many things which, 
for Everard’s peace of mind, would have been better 
unsaid, for she dwelt mostly upon Josey’s free-and easy 


AFTER TWO TEARS. 


94 

manner with the gentlemen who came to the house U 
call, or chanced to be boarding there. 

“1 don’t mean she does anything had, ,! she said, 
‘ f anything you could sue for if you wanted to, but she 
just makes eyes at them, and leads them on, and gets 
them all dangling on her string, and wants to be their 
sister, and alfthat sort of stuff, and when the fools ofltei 
themselves, as some of them do, she rises up on her tip¬ 
toes and wonders how they could presume to do such a 
thing, as she had never meant to encourage them,—she 
was simply their friend ; and, if you’ll believe it, they 
mostly stick to her just the same, and the sister business 
goes on, and she a married woman ! I’m sorry for you, 
Mr. Forrest !” 

And oh, how sorry he was for himself, and how after 
this revelation he shrank from the gay butterfly which 
flitted around him so gracefully, and treated him to the 
eyes of which Agnes had spoken so significantly. And 
still there was no open rupture between the two, no 
words of recrimination or reproach on either side. He 
was always courteous and polite, though cold as the 
polar sea ; while she was sweetness itself, and only the 
expression of her face told occasionally that she fully 
realized the situation, and knew just how she stood with 
him. But he was her husband, and as such would one 
day be known to the world, and she was far prouder of 
him now in his character as a man than she had been 
when she took him, a boy ; and she meant to see him on 
the stage in Amherst, and compel him to pay her some 
attention which should mark her as an object of prefer¬ 
ence. She knew he did not wish to have her there, but 
she did not care for that, and wrote to him her intention 
to be present at the Commencement, and her wish that 
he should pay her some attention. 

The old, weary, hopeless look, which had become 
habitual to his face, deepened in intensity as Everard 
read the note, and then began to calculate the chances 
of a meeting between his friends and Josey. He was 
very morbid about this secret, which he had kept so long 
that it seemed to him now that he never could divulge 
it, even if sure that his father’s bitter anger would not 
follow. And he did not wish Beatrice and Rossie to see 
hie wife, if he could help it, and perhaps he could. There 


COMMENCEMENT. 


95 

« ould be a great crowd in the church they could not 
see her there ; and, as Mrs. Everts lived more than a 
mile from town, they might not meet her at all, unless at 
the reception given by the president, and to this Josey 
would hardly be invited. So he breathed a little more 
freely, and completed his arrangements for his family, 
and wrote a line to Josey, saying he would call upon her 
at Mrs. Everts’ when she came, but should be so very 
busy that he could not be with her a great deal. 

To Rosamond he wrote quite differently, and told her 
how glad he was that she was coming, and how much he 
hoped she would enjoy the trip, and that there was the 
coziest, prettiest room imaginable waiting for her in one 
of the pleasantest houses in town. And Rossie was 
crazy with delight and anticipation, and scarcely slept a 
wink the night before they started. And still she was 
very bright, and fresh, and pretty, in her suit of Holland 
linen, and never was journey more enjoyed than she en¬ 
joyed hers, seeing everything, and appreciating every¬ 
thing, and declaring that she was not a whit tired when 
at last they reached Amherst, and found Everard waiting 
for them. 


CHAPTER XII. 

COMMENCEMENT. 

was nearly a year since they had seen Ever¬ 
ard, and Bee and Rossie were struck at once 
with the great change in his personal appear¬ 
ance, while even the judge noticed how thin 
and pale he was, but attributed it naturally 
to hard study. Fresh air and exercise at home, would 
soon make that all right, he thought, and so dismissed it 
from his mind. But Beatrice and Rosamond both saw 
more than the thin face, which had grown so pale and 
troubled. They saw that Everard’s hat was the same 
worn the year before when he was at home ; saw that 
his pants were shining about the knees, and his coat 
shinin'? and worn about the sleeves, while his boots were 
carefuiiy patched. Once he had been the best and most 







96 


COMMENCEMENT. 


fashionably-dressed young man in college, but 1.a was 
far from that now, though he was scrupulously neat and 
clean, and looked every whit a gentleman as he walked 
with the young ladies down the shaded street, and tried 
to seem natural, and answer gayly to Beatrice’s light 
badinage and Rossie’s quaint remarks. But it was up¬ 
hill business, for how could he be happy when he knew 
that; Josey would soon be watching for him, and expect¬ 
ing him to pass a part of the evening, at least, with her? 
What if she should take it into her head to come to town 
and hunt him up, and find him there with his friends ? 
What could he say or do, and what would they think of 
her? It made him faint and sick just to imagine Bea¬ 
trice weighing Josephine as she would weigh her, and 
discovering more than the enormity of cotton lace and 
dollar jewelry, while Rossie,—he could not define to him¬ 
self why he shrank so nervously from having her clear, 
honest eyes scan Josephine Fleming, as he knew they 
would do. 

After tea was over, Everard took his father through 
the town and introduced him to some of the professors, 
and then, as the twilight began to fall, asked to be ex 
cused a short time, as he had an engagement to call upon 
a friend ; so his father returned alone to his lodgings, 
and Everard started on a rapid walk toward Mrs. Everts’. 
He did not know the lady personally, but he knew where 
she lived, and was scon at her gate, where he paused a 
moment in some surprise at the sounds of talking and 
laughter which greeted his ears. The parlor was lighted 
up, and through the open windows he caught a glimpse 
of Josephine, fair and lovely, in pure white, with only a 
bit of honeysuckle at her throat and in her hair, which 
fell like a golden shower upon her neck, and gave her a 
very youthful appearance. Gathered around her were 
four young men, juniors and sophomores, each striving 
for the preference, and each saying some soft thing to 
her, at which she laughed so prettily and coquettishly 
that their zeal and admiration were increased tenfold. 

“ How did these puppies know her?” Everard asked 
himself, as he leaned against the gate ; then he remem 
bered having heard that one of tnem had spent a little 
time in Holburton, and probably he was in the habit o i 


COMMENCEMENT. 


97 


going there occasionally, and had taken the others with 
him. 

At all events she seemed to know them well, and 
they were in the full tide of flattery and mirth when 
his ring broke the spell, and he was ushered into the par¬ 
lor. 

“ Oli, I am so glad to see you !” Josey exclaimed, com¬ 
ing gracefully forward, and giving him both her hands, 
an act which was noted by the juniors and sophomores, 
and mentally resented. 

What business had that grave, dignified Forrest 
there, and why should Miss Fleming greet him so cor¬ 
dially, and where did she know him anyway ? They 
had heard he was very wealthy, and that he once was 
very fast and wild, but something had changed him 
entirely, and transformed him into a sober, reticent, and, 
as they believed, very proud and stingy young man, 
whose perfectly correct behavior was a living rebuke to 
themselves. He was not popular with their set, and 
they showed it in their faces, and pulled at their cravats, 
and fingered the bouquets in their button-holes, and 
stood round awkwardly, while he talked with Josey, and 
asked her of her journey, and her mother and Agnes, 
and answered her questions about the exercises the next 
day, and the best place for her to sir. 

“Oh, we will arrange that ; we will see that you 
have a good seat,” the juniors and sophomores echoed in 
chorus ; and with a slight sneer, perceptible to Josey, on 
his face, Everard said to her : “ I do not see that there is 
any chance for me to offer you any attention, you seem 
so well provided for.” 

Josey bit her lip with vexation, for though she was 
delighted to have so many admirers at her side, she would 
far rather have been cared for particularly by this 
husband, of whom she was beginning to be a good deal 
afraid. He was so greatly changed that she could not 
understand him at all, or guess what was passing in his 
mind, and when at last he rose to go she said to him 
almost beseechingly : 

“I hope I shall see you to-morrow.” 

“Possibly, though I shall be very busy,” was big 
reply ; and just then one of the juniors said to him : ^ 

“By the way, Forrest, who is that fine-looking, 

5 


COMMENCEMENT. 


elderly gentleman I saw with you this evening ? Your 
father ?” 

“ Yes, my father,” Everard replied, feeling a desire 
to throttle the young man, and glancing involuntarily 
at Josephine, over whom a curious change had come. 

The was a blood-red spot on her cheeks, and an 
nnnatural glitter in her eyes, as she said to the quartette 
around her : 

“ Excuse me a moment. I have just thought of some¬ 
thing which I particularly wish to say to Mr. Forrest.” 

The next moment she stood in the hall with him, 
and was saying to him rapidly and excitedly : “Your 
father is here, and you did not tell me. I don’t like 
it. I wish to see him,—wish him to see me, and you 
must introduce me at the reception. I intend to be 
there.” 

“ Very well,” was all Everard said, but he felt as if 
a band of iron was drawn around his heart as he went 
back to Beatrice and Rossie, who were waiting for him, 
and who noticed at once the worried look upon his face, 
and wondered a little at it. 

Had anything happened to disquiet him, that he 
should seem so absent-minded and disturbed ? Rossie 
was the first to reach a solution of the mystery, and when 
at his request Beatrice seated herself at the piano and 
began to play, she stole up to him, and whispered very 
low, “Haveyou seen Joe Fleming to-night?” 

“Yes,” was his reply, and Rossie’s wise little nod 
said plainly, “ I guessed as much.” 

In her mind every trouble or perplexity which came 
to Everard had something to do with the mysterious Joe 
Fleming, though in what way she could not guess. She 
only knew that it was so, and she felt an increased 
desire to see this bete noir of Mr. Everard’s. 

“ And perhaps I shall have a chance to-morrow night 
*at the reception. It will be just like his impudence to 
be there,” she thought, when at last she laid her tired 
head upon her pillow. 

Rossie was very pale and haggard when she came 
down to breakfast the next morning. She was accus¬ 
tomed to the headache, and knew that one was coming 
on, but she fought the pain back bravely, for she could 
not miss the valedictory. 


COMMENCEMENT. 


99 


It was comparatively early when she and Beatrice 
entered the church, which, even at that hour, was densely 
packed. But good seats were found for them, and 
Rossie sat ail through the exercises and listened breath¬ 
lessly to Mr. Everard’s oration, and threw him a bou¬ 
quet, and wondered who the beautiful lady was who 
stood up on tiptoe to cheer him, and who seemed so 
desirous that her bouquet of pansies and rose geraniums 
should reach him in safety. Beatrice did not see the 
lady, but she saw the bouquet of pansies -which fell at 
Everard’s feet, where lie seemed disposed to let it lie, 
until a boy picked it up and handed it to him. It was 
very pretty, and the pansies showed well against the 
background of green, but Beatrice little guessed how 
faint and sick the young man felt as he held them with 
the flowers Rossie had thrown. These he had picked up 
himself, and smiled pleasantly upon the young girl, whose 
pride and satisfaction shone in her brilliant eyes, and 
whose face was almost as white as the dress she wore. 
For Rossie was growing sick very fast, and when the 
exercises were over she could not even wait to speak to 
Everard, but hurried with Beatrice to her room, where 
she went directly to bed. 

The reception was given up, but Rossie saw Everard 
a moment and told him how proud she was of him, and 
how fine she thought his valedictory. 

Everard’s spirits were much lighter now than they 
had been in the morning, but when he remembered what 
had lightened them, he felt himself a very brute and 
monster, for it was nothing less than the sight of Rossie’s 
pale, sick face, and the knowing that she would not attend 
the reception, or Beatrice either, for the Latter insisted 
upon staying with the little girl, and said she was only 
too glad to do so, for she did not care for the people she 
should meet, and would much rather remain at home 
with Rossie. 



100 


THE RECEPTION. 


CHAPTER XI1L 

THE RECEPTION. 

was a rather stupid affair, with a great many 
more gentlemen than ladies. Indeed, there 
were but very few of the latter present, and 
these mostly the wives and daughters of the 
professors, with any guests who chanced to 
be visiting them, so that when Josephine entered the 
room in her flowing robes of white, with her beautiful 
hair falling down her back, she created a great sensation. 
How she obtained an invitation to the reception it would 
be difficult to tell, but obtained it she had, and had 
spent hours over her dress, which was a master-piece of 
grace and girlish simplicity. It was white tarletan, which 
fitted her perfectly, and left bare just enough of her 
neck and arms to be becoming. Clusters of pansies looped 
up the overdress, and formed her shoulder-knots, while 
a bunch of the same flowers, mingled with sweet mig¬ 
nonette, was fastened at her throat, and around her 
neck was a delicate chain of gold from which was sus¬ 
pended a turquoise locket, set with a few small pearls. 
Everything about her, though not costly, was in perfect 
taste, and she looked so charming, so fresh and lovely, 
when she entered the hot parlor, accompanied by one of 
the seniors, who was her escort, that the guests held 
their breath for a moment to look at her; then the gen¬ 
tlemen who knew her,—and there were a dozen or more 
of them,—pressed eagerly forward, each ambitious to 
pay her some attention. 

Everard was standing by his father and the president 
when she came in, and at sight of her, smiling sweetly 
and bearing herself so royally, he felt for an instant a 
thrill of something like pride in her. But when he re¬ 
membered that this beauty, and grace, and sweetness 
was all there was of the woman; that her manner was 
studied, even to the smile on her lips and the expression 
of her eyes, he turned from her with a feeling of dis¬ 
gust, but glanced nervously at his father to see what 
effect she would have upon him. Judge Forrest saw 





THE HECEFT10H. 


10S 


her, and stopped a moment in the midst of something he 
was saying to the president to look at her; then, moved 
*>y one of those unaccountable prejudices which one 
sometimes takes against a stranger without knowing 
why, he turned his back and resumed his interrupted 
conversation, and so he did not see young Allen, her at¬ 
tendant, when he presented her to Everard as one whom 
she had never met. 

There was a comical gleam in Josey’seyes, and Ever* 
ard’s face was scarlet as he said, 

“ I have the pleasure of knowing Miss Fleming, I be* 
lieve.” 

Seeing an opening in the crowd, Allen tried to pass 
on; but Josey had no intention of leaving that locality, 
and, as soon as she could, she disengaged herself from 
him, and standing close to Everard, said, in a low tGne : 

“ Present me to your father.” 

He had no alternative but to obey, and in a few 
moments Josey’s great blue eyes wrnre looking up coyly 
and deferentially at the stern old judge, and, a few mo¬ 
ments later, her arm was linked in his, and he was lead¬ 
ing her toward an open window, where it was cooler, 
and the crowd was not so great. She had complained 
that it was warm and close, and asked the judge if he 
would mind taking her near the conservatory, where it 
must be more comfortable. 

And so the judge gave her his arm and piloted her to 
the window, where she got between him and the people 
and compelled him to stand and listen, while she talked 
in her most flattering strain, telling him how glad she 
was to meet him, she had heard so much of him from his 
son, who sometimes visited at her mother’s, and how 
much he was like what she had fancied him to be from 
Everard’s description, only so much more youthful 
looking. 

If there was anything the judge detested it was for 
an old man to look younger than his years. It was in 
some sense a living lie, he thought, and he abominated 
anything like deception. So when Josephine spoke of 
his youthful appearance, he answered gruffly, “I am 
sixty, and look every day of t. If I thought I didn’t. 
I’d proclaim it aloud, for I hate deception of ever; 
kind.” 


iOa 


THE RECEPTION. 


“ Yes, I should know you did, and there we agree 
perfectly,” Josephine replied, and she leaned a little 
more heavily upon his arm and made wlat Agnes called 
her eyes at him, and asked him to hold her fan while she 
buttoned her glove, and asked him about Charleston as 
it was before the war, and wished that she could have 
seen it in its glory. 

“ Do you know,” and she spoke very low and looked 
straight up into his face, “it is very naughty in me, I 
admit, but at heart 1 believe I’m a bit of a rebel , and 
though, of course, I was very young when the war broke 
out, and didn’t quite know what it was about, I secretly 
sympathized with you Southerners, and held a little ju¬ 
bilee by myself when I heard of a Southern victory. Do 
you think me a traitor?” and she smiled sweetly into the 
face which never relaxed a muscle, but was cold and 
frigid as ice. 

Judge Forrest was, to his heart’s core, a Southerner, 
and had sympathized with his people during the rebellion, 
because they were his people; but had he been born 
North lie would have been just as strong a Federal as he 
was a Confederate, so, instead of thinking more highly 
of Miss Josey for her rebel sentiments, he thought the 
less of her, and answered rebukingly, “ Young woman, I 
do not quite believe you know all the word traitor im¬ 
plies ; if you did, you wouldn’t voluntarily apply it to 
yourself.” 

“No, perhaps not. I’m a foolish, silly girl, I know,” 
Josey answered him humbly, while great tears swam in 
her blue eyes, but produced no effect upon the judge. 

Indeed, he scarcely saw them, he was so intent upon 
ridding himself of this piece of affectation and vul¬ 
garity, as he mentally pronounced her, and it was all in 
vain that she practiced upon him the little coquetries 
which she was wont to play off on other men with more 
or less success. He did not care for her innocence, nor 
her pretty pretense of ignorance of the world, ror tim¬ 
idity nor shyness, nor love of books and poetry, aor ad¬ 
miration of himself, for she tried all these, one after 
another, and felt herself growing angry with this man 
who stood so unmoved before her and seemed only anxious 
to get away. She had made no impression on him what¬ 
ever, at least no good impression, and she knew it, and 


THE RECEPTION. 


108 


resolved upon one final effort. He might be reached 
through his son, and so she mentioned Everard, and com¬ 
plimented his oration, and told how high he stood in the 
estimation of the professors, and what an exemplary 
young man he was, and ended by saying, “ You must be 
very proud of him, are you not V” 

Here was a direct question, but the judge did not 
answer it. There was beginning to dawn upon him a sus¬ 
picion that this girl, whose flippant manner he so much 
disliked, was more interested in his son than in himself, 
and if so, possibly, his son was interested in her. At all 
events he meant to know the extent of their acquaint¬ 
ance, and instead of answering her question, he asked : 

“ Have you known my son long ?” 

Josey thought the truth would answer better tbar 
equivocation, and she told him that Everard had boarded 
with her mother a few weeks three years ago. 

“You remember,” she said, “he spent his long vaca 
tion East, and a part of it in Holburton, where we live. 
Perhaps you may have heard him speak of my mother. 
She knew your wife well, and was at your wedding, 
though you would not remember her, of course, among 
so many strangers.” 

The judge did not remember her, nor could he recall 
the name as one which he had ever heard, but he did not 
think of doubting Josey’s word, and never suspected 
that, though her mother had been present at his bridal, 
it was as a former servant in the Bigelow family ; he 
only knew that if she had been the most intimate friend 
of his wife, he did not like her daughter, and he greeted 
with rapture the young man who at last appeared and 
took her off his hands. Her attempt at familiarity with 
him had failed, and she felt intensely chagrined, and mor¬ 
tified, and disappointed, for she began to understand how 
difficult it would be for Everard to confess his marriage, 
and to fear the consequences if he did. A tolerably skill¬ 
ful reader of human nature, she saw what kind of man 
Judge Forrest was, and felt that Everard had not misrepre¬ 
sented him. She saw, too, that he had conceived a dislike 
to herself, and for the first time began to dread the result 
should he know that she was his daughter-in-law. Dis¬ 
inheritance of Everard might follow, and then farewell 
to her dream of wealth, and luxury, and position. It is 


TEE RECEPTION. 


101 


tma the latter would be hers to a certain extent, for the 
wile of Everard Forrest would always take precedence 
of Josephine Fleming, but Josey liked what money would 
bring her better than position, and perhaps it would be 
well to keep quiet a while longer, provided her rapidly 
increasing wants were supplied. In this conclusion she 
was greatly strengthened when, the morning following 
the reception, Everard came for a few moments to see 
her and escort her to the train, for she was to leave that 
morning for home. 

Between Everard and his father there had been a 
little conversation concerning Miss Josey, and not very 
complimentary to her either. 

“ Who was that bold, brazen-faced girl you introduced 
to me?” the judge had asked, and Everard replied : 

“Do you mean that blonde in white ? That is Miss 
Fleming from Holburton. She is called very beautiful.” 

u Umph ! looks well enough, for that matter, but I do 
not like her. She is quite too forward, and familiar, 
and affected. There’s nothing real about her, but her 
brass and vulgarity. And you boarded there, it seems, 
and knew her well?” the judge said, testily, and Everard 
stammered out that he did board with Mrs. Fleming, 
and had found Josephine a very agreeable young lady. 

He must say so much in defense of the girl who was 
his wife, but it seemed to vex his father, who began to 
lose his temper, and said he should think very little of a 
young man who could find anything agreeable in that 
girl ! 

“ Why, she’s no modesty or womanly delicacy at all, 
or she would not try to attract as she does with her eyes, 
and her hands, and her fan, and her naked arms, and the 
Lord only knows what. You are no son of mine if you 
can find pleasure in the society of such women as she 
represents. Why, she is as unlike Beatrice and Rossie 
as darkness is unlike daylight.” 

This was the judge’s verdict, and Everard felt his 
chain cutting deeper and deeper as he thought how im¬ 
possible it was for him to acknowledge the marriage now. 
He did not sleep at all that night, and the morning found 
him pale, and haggard, and spiritless, as he walked down 
the road in the direction of Mrs. Everts Josey was 
waiting for him and ready for the train. She had not 


THE RECEPTION 


106 


told any of her numerous admirers that sue expected to 
leave that morning, as she wished to see Everard alone. 
She was neither pale, nor fagged, nor tired-looking, 
though she, too, had passed a sleepless night, but her 
complexion was just as soft, and creamy, and smooth, 
and her eyes just a3 bright and melting as she welcomed 
her husband, and laying her hand on his, said to him : 

“ You are going with your father, I suppose. How 
long before I can come too ?” 

There was a sudden lifting of his hand to his head 
as if he had been struck, and Everard staggered a little 
back from her, as he replied : 

“ Come to Forrest House ? I don’t know. I am 
afraid that will never be while father lives.” 

“ Yes, I saw he took a great dislike to me, and prob¬ 
ably he has been airing his opinion of me to you,” she 
said, tartly ; then, as Everard did not speak, she con¬ 
tinued : “ Tell me what he said of me.” 

“Why should he say anything of you to me? He 
knows nothing,” Everard asked, and Josephine replied : 

“I don’t know why. I only know he has; so, out 
with it. I insist upon knowing the worst. What did 
he say ?” 

There was a hard ring in her voice, which Agnes knew 
well, but which Everard had never heard before, and a 
look in her eyes before which he quailed ; and after a 
moment, during which she twice repeated : 

“Tell me what he said,” he answered her : 

“I would rather not, for I have no wish to wound 
you unnecessarily, and what father said was not compli¬ 
mentary.” 

“I know that. I knew he hated me, but I insist upon 
knowing just what he said and all he said,” Josie cried 
passionately, for she, who seldom lost her temper except 
with Agnes, was beginning to lose it now. 

“If you will insist I must tell you, I suppose,” 
Everard said, “but remember that father’s prejudices are 
sometimes unfounded.” 

He meant to soften it to her as much as possible, but 
he told her the truth, and Josie was conscious of a 
keener pang of mortification than she had ever felt be¬ 
fore. She had meant to win the judge, just as she 

won all men when she tried but she had failed utterly, 

5 * 


106 


THE RECEPTION. 


He disliked and despised lier, and if he knew she was his 
son’s wii \ he might go to any length to he rid of her, 
even to tne attempting a divorce. Once, when soreiy 
pressed, Agnes had suggested that idea as something 
which rnigh* occur to Everard, and said : 

“You knew that under the circumstances he could 
get one easily T> 

Josephine kn^w that he could, too, but she had faith 
in Everard. would not bring this publicity upon 

himself and her , but his father was quite another sort of 
person. She was afraid of him, and of what he might 
do if roused to aciion as a knowledge of the marriage 
would rouse him. lie must not know of it at present, 
and though she had intended to make Everard acknowl¬ 
edge her as soon as he was graduated and settled at 
home she changed her mind suddenly, and was almost 
as anxious to keep the secret as Everard himself. 

“I am greatly obliged to your father for his opinion 
of me,” she said, when she could command herself to 
speak. “ He is the first man I ever failed to please when 
I really tried to do so, and I did try hard to make an im¬ 
pression, but it was all a waste of words ; he is drier 
and stiffer than an old powder-horn. I don’t like your 
father, Everard, and I am free to say so, though, of 
course, I mean no blame to you. I am glad I have met 
him, for I understand the situation perfectly, and know 

1 ‘ust how you shrink from letting him know our secret. 

hoped that you would take me home as soon as you 
were settled at your law studies in your father’s office, 
but I am convinced that to announce your marriage with 
me at present would be disastrous to your future ; so we 
must wait still longer, hoping that something will turn 
up .” 

She spoke very cheerfully, and her hand was on 
Everard’s, and her eyes were wearing their sweetest ex¬ 
pression as she added : 

“ But you will write to me often, won’t you, and try 
to love me again as you did before that night, which I 
wish had never been for your sake, because I know you 
are sorry.” 

He di4 not say he was not ; he did not say any¬ 
thing, bit the shadow lifted from his face, and his heart 
gave a great bound when he heard from her own lipt 


THE RECEPTION. 


107 


that she should not urge her claim upon him at once. 
He had feared this with such fear as a freed slave has of 
a return to his chains, and now that he was to have a 
little longer respite, he felt so happy and grateful 
withal that when she said to him : 

“ I wish you’d kiss me once for the sake of the 
old time he stooped and kissed her twice, and let 
her golden head rest against his bosom, where she 
laid it for a moment, but he felt no throb of love for this 
woman who was his wife. That was dead, and he could 
not rekindle it, but he could be kind to her, and do his 
duty to her, and he talked with her of his future, and 
said he meant to go to work at something at once, and 
hoped to become a regular contributor to a magazine 
which paid well, and he seemed so bright and cheerful 
that Josey flattered herself that she had touched him 
again. Nothing could have been farther from the truth, 
though he was very polite to her and went with her to 
the station, where she was immediately surrounded by a 
bevy of students who were there also to take the train, 
and who, in their eagerness to serve her, left Everard far 
m the background. 

The fact that young Forrest, who, from the fastest, 
wildest young man in college had become the soberest, 
most reserved, and, as they fancied, most aristocratic 
member of his class, had attended Miss Fleming to the 
train, did not in the least lessen her in the estimation of 
the students who gathered round her so thickly. Indeed, 
it increased her importance, and she knew it, and felt a 
great pride in the tall, handsome, dignified man who 
stood and saw one take her satchel, another her shawl, 
and another her umbrella, while he who alone had aright 
to render her these attentions looked on silently. What¬ 
ever he thought he gave no sign, and his face was just 
as grave as ever when at last he said good-by, and walked 
away. 

•f: * * * *■ * 

“Did you come up hereto see that girl off?” was said 
close to his ear, in a voice and tone he knew so well, just 
as he left the depot, and turning suddenly, he saw his 
father, with an unmistakable look of displeasure on his 
face. 

The judge was taking his morning stroll, and had 


108 


TWO MONTES. 


sauntered to the station just in time to see the long curit 
he remembered so well float out of the car window, and 
to see the fluttering of the handkerchief Josephine was 
waving at his son. 

“Yes, father, I came to see her off. There was no 
one else to do it, and I know her so well ; her mother 
was very kind to me.” 

“Urnph! I’ve no doubt of it. Such people always 
are kind to young men like you,” the judge,said, con¬ 
temptuously ; “ but I won’t have it; I tell you, I won’t 1 
That girl is just as full of tricks as she can hold, and is 
never so happy as when she has twenty or more fools 
dangling after her. She will marry the one with the 
most money, of course, but it must not be you ; re¬ 
member that. I believe I’d turn you out of doors." 

Just then they met one of the professors, and that 
changed the conversation, which did not particularly 
tend to raise Everard’s spirits, as he went to the house 
where Beatrice and Rosamond were stopping. Still, he 
felt a great burden gone when he remembered that of 
her own free will Josephine had decided that their secret 
must be kept fora while longer, and something of his own 
self came back to him as he thought of months, if not a 
whole year of freedom, with Beatrice and Rossie, at the 
old home in Rothsay. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

TWO MONTHS. 



©§F1|F the every-day lives of the three young peo¬ 
ple, Beatrice, Everard, and Rosamond, I 
wish to say a few words before hurrying on 
to the tragedy which cast so dark a shadow 
over them all. But there was no sign of the 
storm now in the rose-tinted sky, and Everard never 
forgot that bright summer and autumn which followed 
his return from college,—when he was so happy in the 
society of Beatrice and Rossie. It is true he neve? 
forgot that he was bound fast, with no hope of 









TWO MONTHS. 


m 

ever being free, but here in Rothsay, miles and miles 
away from the chain which bound him, it did not hurt 
go much or seem quite so hard to bear. 

Josephine was not very troublesome; in fact, she had 
only written to him twice, and then she did not ask for 
money, and seemed quite as anxious as himself that their 
secret should be kept from his father until some way was 
found to reconcile him to it. Possibly her reticence on 
the subject of money arose from the fact that he sent 
her fifty dollars in his first letter written after his return 
to Rothsay. This large sum he had got together by the 
most rigid economy in his own expenses, and by the in¬ 
terest on a few shares of railroad stock which a relative 
had left to him as her godson. This stock for a time had 
been good for nothing, but recently it had risen in value, 
so that a dividend had been declared, and Everard had 
sent the first proceeds to Josephine; but his boyish love 
was dead, and he did not try to resuscitate it, or build 
another love where that had been; he was content with 
the present as it was. His father, who was very kind to 
him, and seemed trying to make amends for his former 
severity and harshness, had said he was not to enter 
the office to study until October. Looking in his boy’s 
face, he had seen something which he mistook for weari¬ 
ness, and too close application to books, and he said 
“ You do not seem quite well. Your mother’s family 
were not strong; so rest till October. Have a good time 
with Rossie and Bee, and you will be better fitted to 
bone down to w T ork when the time for it comes.” 

This was a great deal for Judge Forrest to say, but 
he felt very indulgent toward his son, who had gradu¬ 
ated with so much honor, and who seemed to be wholly 
upright and steady; and in a fit of wonderful generosity 
he went so far as to present him with a fine mustang, as 
a fitting match to Beatrice’s fleet riding-horse. This 
was just wffiat Everard wanted, and he and Miss Belknap 
rode miles and miles together over the fine roads and 
through the beautiful country in the vicinity of Rothsay. 
Rosamond sometimes accompanied them, but she was 
not fond of riding, and old Bobtail, the gray mare sent 
her up so high, and seemed so out of place beside Bee’s 
Bhining black pony, and Everard’s white-faced mustang, 
that she preferred remaining at home; and so the two 


110 


TWO MONTHS . 


were left to themselves, and people talked knowingly of 
what was sure to be, and hinted it to Rosamond, who 
never contradicted them, but by her manner gave credence 
to the story. She believed implicitly that Beatrice was 
coming to be mistress of the Forrest House, and was 
very happy in the prospect, for next to Mr. Everard she 
liked Bee Belknap better than any person in the world. 
Many were the castles she built of the time when Ever¬ 
ard should bring his bride home. Since Mrs. Forrest’s 
death so many rooms had been shut up, and the house 
had seemed so lonely and almost dreary, especially in the 
winter, but with Bee there all would be changed, and 
Rossie even indulged in the hope that possibly the fur¬ 
niture in her own little room might be replaced by better, 
or at least added to. The judge, too, watched matters 
with an immense amount of satisfaction. Years ago 
he had settled it that Everard would marry Bee, 
and he was sure of it now. That girl with the 
yellow hair, as he always called Josephine to himself, 
was not anything to his son, as he had once feared she 
might be. Everard could never stoop to her ; Everard 
would marry Bee, audit might as well take place at once; 
there was no need to wait, and just as soon as his son 
was established in the office he meant to speak to him, 
and if it were not already settled it should be, and 
Christmas was the time fixed in his own mind as a fitting 
season for the bridal festivities. He would fill the house 
with guests all through the holidays, and when they were 
gone the young couple might journey as far as Wash¬ 
ington, or even Florida, if they liked. Then in the 
spring Bee could fit up the south side of the house as 
expensively as she chose, and Rossie should have the 
large corner room next his own on the north side, thus 
leaving the newly-married pair as much to themselves 
as possible. 

And so the wires were being laid, and Everard stepped 
over and around them all unconsciously, and took the 
goods the gods provided for him, whether in the shape 
of Beatrice, or Rosamond, or his father’s uniform kind¬ 
ness toward him ; and the September days went by, and 
October came, and found him a student at Iasi in his 
father’s office, where he bent every energy to mastering 
the law and gaining his profession. There were no more 


THE HOUSE OF CARDS BEGINS TO FALL. Ill 


long rides with Beatrice, and his mustang chafed and 
fretted and grew unmanageable for want of exercise. 
There were no more strolls in the leafy woods with Rossie, 
who gathered the nuts, and ferns and grasses alone, and 
larely had Everard’s society except at meal-time, when 
fihe managed to post him with regard to all the details 
of her quiet, every-day life. She was reading Chateau¬ 
briand’s “ Atala ” in French, and found it rather stupid ; 
or she was learning a new piece of music she knew he 
would like ; or old Blue had six new kittens in his trunk 
up in the garret, and she wished him to go and see them. 

Everard was always interested in what interested 
Rosamond, and on no one did his glance rest so kindly 
as on this little old-fashioned girl, in whom there seemed 
to he no guile ; but he had no leisure time to give her. 
It was his plan to get his profession as soon as possible, 
and then, taking Josephine, go to some new place in the 
far West, where he could grow up with the town, and 
perhaps be comparatively independent and happy. But 
his future had been ordered otherwise, and suddenly, 
without a note of warning, his house of cards came 
down, and buried him in its ruins. 


CHAPTER XV. 

THE HOUSE OF CAKDS BEGINS TO FALL. 

VERARD had been in his father’s office five 
weeks or more, when, on a rainy morning 
early in November, just as he was settling 
himself to his books, and congratulating 
himself upon the luxury of a quiet day, his 
father came in, and after looking over the paper, and 
poking the fire vigorously, seated himself opposite his 
son, and began . 

“ Everard, put down your book ; I want to talk with 
you.” 

“Yes, sir,” Everard replied, closing the book and fac¬ 
ing his father with an unaccountable dread that some¬ 
thing unpleasant was coming. 






112 TEE BOUSE OF CARDS BEGINS TO BALE 


“ It’s never ray way to beat round the bush,” the 
judge began ; “ I come to the point at once, and so I want 
to know if you and Bee have settled it yet?” 

“ Settled what ?” Everard asked ; and his father re¬ 
plied : 

“ Don’t be a fool and put on girlish airs. Marrying 
is as much a matter of business as anything else, and we 
may discuss it just the same. You don’t suppose me in 
my dotage, that I have not seen what is in everybody’s 
mouth,—your devotion to Beatrice and her readiness to 
receive it ; wait till I’m through,” he continued, authori¬ 
tatively, as he saw Everard about to speak. “ I like the 
girl; have always liked her, though she is a wild, saucy 
thing, but that will correct itself in time. Your mother 
believed in her fully, and she knew what was in women. 
She hoped you would marry Bee some day, and what I 
wish to say is this : you may think you must wait till 
you get your profession, but there is no need of that at 
all. You are twenty-two. You have matured wonder¬ 
fully the last two years, and I may say improved, too ; 
time was when I could hardly speak peaceably of you 
for the scrapes you were eternally getting into, but you 
dropped all that after your poor mother died. I was 
proud of you at Commencement. I am proud of you 
now, and I want you to marry at once. The house needs 
a mistress, and I have fixed upon Christmas as the proper 
time for the wedding, so if you have not settled it with 
Bee, do so at once.” 

“But, father,” Everard gasped, with a face as white 
as snow, “ it is impossible that I should marry Beatrice. 
I have never for a moment considered such a thing.” 

“The deuce you haven’t,” the judge exclaimed, be¬ 
ginning to get angry. “ Pray, let me ask you why you 
have been racing and chasing after her ever since you 
came home, if you never considered the thing, as you 
say ? Others have considered it, if you have not. Every¬ 
body thinks you are to marry her, and, by George, I 
won’t have her compromised. No, I won’t ! She could 
sue you for breach of promise, and recover, too, with all 
this dancing, and prancing, and scurripping round the 
country. If von have not thought of it, you must think 
.of it now. You surely like the girl.” 

He stopped to take breath, and Everard an.nwei td him: 


TEE HOUSE OF CARDS BEGINS TO FALL, 118 


“ Yes, father, I like her very much, but not m that 
way,—not as a wife, and I never can. It is impassible.” 

“ Why impossible ? What do you mean ?” the judge 
said, loudly and angrily. “ Is there somebody else ? 
Is it that yellow-haired hussy who made those eyes at 
me, because, if it is, by Jove, you are no son of mine, 
and you may as well understand it first as last. I’ll never 
sanction that, never ! Why don’t you answer me, and 
not stare at me so like an idiot? Do you like that 
white-livered woman better than Beatrice ? Do you 
think her a fitter wife for you and companion for Rosa* 
mond ?” 

Everard had opened his lips to tell the truth, but 
what his father said of Josephine sealed them tight; but 
he answered his father’s last questions, and said : 

“No, I do not think her afitter companion for Rossie 
than Beatrice, and I do not like her better.” 

“Then what in thunder is in the way?” the judge 
asked, slightly appeased. “ Have you any fears of Bee’s 
saying no? I can assure you there. I know she won’t, 
I am as certain of it as that I am living now.” 

Suddenly there shot across Everard’s mind a way of 
escape from the difficulty, a chance for a longer respite, 
and he said : 

“If I were to ask Bee to marry me and she refused 
would you be satisfied ?” 

“With you ? Yes, but, I tell you she won’t refuse. 
And don’t you ask her unless you intend to stick to 
it like a man,” the judge replied, as he rose to end the 
conference. 

“I shall ask her, and to-night,” was Everard’s low* 
spoken answer, which reached his father’s ears, and sent 
him home in a better frame of mind. 

He was very gracious to Everard at dinner, and paid 
him the compliment of consulting him on some business 
matter, but Everard was too much pre-occupied to heed 
what he was saying, and declining the dessert excused 
himself from the table, and went to his own room. 

Never since his ill-starred marriage had he felt sc 
troubled and perplexed as now, when the fruit of hia 
wrong-doing was staring him so broadly in the face. That 
his father w T ould never leave him in peace until he proposed 
to Beatrice, he knew, and unless he confessed everything 


114 THE HOUSE OF GAUDS BEGINS TO FALL. 


and threw himself upon Ills mercy, there was but one 
course left him to pursue,—tell Beatrice the whole 
story, without the slightest prevarication, and then 
go through the farce of offering himself to her, who 
must, of course, refuse. This refusal he could report to 
his father, who would not blame him, and so a longer 
probation would come to himself. 

In his excitement he did not stop to consider what a 
cowardly thing it was to throw the responsibility upon 
a girl, and make her bear the burden for him. To do 
him justice, however, he did not for a moment suppose 
Beatrice cared for him as his father believed she did, or 
he would never have gone to insult her with an offer she 
could not accept. 

He knew she was beautiful and sweet, and all that 
was lovely and desirable in womanhood, but she was not 
for him. She, nor any one like her, could ever be his 
wife. He had made that impossible ; had by his own 
act put such as she far out of his reach. But when 
he reached Elm Park and saw her, so graceful and lady¬ 
like, and heard the well-bred tones of her voice, and 
remembered how pure and good she was, there did come 
to him the thought that if there was no Josephine in the 
way, he might in time have come to say in earnest to 
this true, spotless girl what now was but a cruel jest, if 
she cared for him,—which she did not in the way his 
father believed she did he was her friend, her 
brother. The Fejee missionary, whose name she saw so 
often in the papers, and who had recently been removed 
to a more eligible field, had never been quite forgotten, 
though there was nothing left to her now of him except 
a faded pond-lily, given the day she told him no, and 
with his kiss, the first and last, upon her forehead, sent 
him away to the girl among the V ermont hills, with the 
glasses and the brown alpaca dress. She had no suspi¬ 
cion of the nature of his errand, and was surprised when, 
as if anxious to have it off his mind, he began, impul¬ 
sively 

“ Beatrice, 1 have come to say something serious to 
you to night, and I want you to stop jesting and be aa 
much in earnest as I am, for I,—I am terribly in earnest 
for once in my life. Bee,—I,—I feel as if I were going 
U> be hung and do the deed myself.” 


THE HOUSE OF CARDS BEGINS TO FALL. 115 


But iiis face was while as marble, and his voice shook 

lie continued : 

“ I am going to teli you something,—going to ask 
you something,—going to ask you to be my wife, but 
you must refuse.” 

It was an odd way of putting it, and not at all what 
Everard had intended to do. He meant to tell her first 
and offer himself afterward as a mere form, but in his 
agitation and excitement he had just reversed it,—had 
told her he was there to ask her to marry him, and she 
must tell him no ! and a look of scorn sprang to her 
eyes as she drew back from him and said, “ You pre¬ 
sume much on my good nature, when you tell me in one 
instant that you propose asking me to be your wife, and 
next that I must refuse you if you do. What reason 
have you to think I would accept you, pray ?” 

He knew she was indignant, and justly so, and he an¬ 
swered her with such a pleading pathos in his voice as 
disarmed her at once of her wrath. 

“ Don’t be angry with me, Bee. I have commenced 
all wrong. I believe my mind is not quite straight. I 
did not come to insult you. I came because I must 
come. I want you for a friend, such as I have not in 
all the world. I want your advice and sympathy. I 
want,—oh, I am the most wretched person living !” 

And he seated himself upon the sofa, and sat with his 
face buried in his hands, while Beatrice stood looking at 
him a moment ; then, going forward she laid her hand 
softly on his head, and said, “ What is it, Everard ? 
What is it you wish to tell me?” 

Without looking up he answered her : 

“ Oh, Bee, I wish I were dead 1 Sit down beside me 
and listen to all T have to tell.” 

She sat down beside him, and listened intently to the 
story Everard told her in full, concealing nothing where 
lie was concerned, but shielding Josephine as far as was 
possible. Rosamond’s noble sacrifice of her hair was ex¬ 
plained, and her mistake about Joe Fleming, who in her 
imagination still existed somewhere in whiskers and tali 
boots, and was the evil genius of Everard’s life. Here 
Beatrice laughed merrily once, then questioned Everard 
rapidly with" regard to every particular c ° his ms *riage. 


116 THE HOUSE OF CARDS BEGINS TO FALL. 


and the family, and the girl. Where was she now and 
what was she like ? 

“ You have seen the picture, Bee,” he said. “ I 
showed it to you that day I broke my head, two years 
ago, and you said she looked as if she might wear cotton 
lace, while mother, to whom I showed it, too, hinted at 
dollar jewelry, and Rossie said she looked as if she were 
a sham.” 

Here Everard laughed himself, but there was more 
of bitterness than mirth in it, and Beatrice laughed, too s 
as she said : 

“That was rather hard ;—cotton lace, dollar jewelry, 
and a sham, though, after all, Rossie’s criticism was 
really of the most consequence, if true ; perhaps it is not. 
Have you her picture now ?” 

lie passed it to her, and with a shrewd woman’s in¬ 
tuition, quickened by actual knowledge, Beatrice felt 
that it was true, and her first womanly instinct was to 
help and comfort this man who had brought his secret 
to her. 

“ Ned,” she said to him, and the name, now so seldom 
used, took her back to the days when she first came from 
France and played and quarreled with him. It made her 
altogether his sister, and as such she spoke. “Ned, I 
am so sorry for you ; sorrier than I can express, and I 
want to help you some way, and I think it must be 
through Josephine. She is your wife, and by your own 
showing you were quite as much in fault as she.” 

“ Yes, quite,” and Everard shivered a little, for he 
guessed what was coming. 

“Well, then,” Beatrice went on, “ought you not to 
make the best of it ? You took her for better or worse, 
knowing what you were doing. You loved her then. 
Can you not do so again ? Is it not your duty to try?” 

“Oh, Bee, you do not know, you do not understand. 
She is not like you, ncr Rossie, nor mother.” 

“Well, try to make her like us, then,” Beatrice re¬ 
plied. “ If her surroundings are not such as please you, 
remove her from them at once. Recognize her as your 
wife. Bring her home to Forrest House and I will stand 
her frend to the death.” 

Everard knew that Bee meant what she said, and thal 
her influence was worth more than that of the whole 


TEE EG USE OF GAUDS DEQUE IQ FADE 117 


town, and if he could have felt any love or even desire 
for Josephine, it would have seemed easy to acknowledge 
his marriage, with Bee’s hopeful words in his car and 
Bee’s strong nature to back him, but he did not. He 
had no love, no desire for her ; he was happier away from 
her, happier to live his present life with Beatrice and 
Rossie ; and, besides that, he could not bring her home ; 
his father would never permit it, and would probably 
turn him from the door if he knew of the alliance. This 
Bee did not know, but he told her of tiie great aversion 
his father had conceived for the girl whom he stigma¬ 
tized as the yellow-haired hussy from Massachusetts, 
“ and after that, do you think I can tell him ?” he asked. 

“It will be bard, I know,” Beatrice replied, “but it 
seems your only course, if he insists upon your marrying 
me.” 

“ But if I tell him you refused me, it may make a 
difference, and things can go on as they are until I get 
my profession,” Everard pleaded, with a shrinking 
which he knew was cowardly from all which the telling 
his father might involve. 

“Even then you are but putting off the evil day, and 
a thing concealed grows worse as time goes on,” Bee 
said. “You must confess it some time, and why not do 
it now. At the most your father can but turn you from 
his door, and if he does that take your wife and go some¬ 
where else. You are young, and the world is all before 
you, and if there is any true womanhood in Josephine, 
it will assert itself when she knows all you have lost tor 
her. She will grow to your standard. She has a sweet, 
childish face, and must have a loving, affectionate 
nature. Give her a chance, Everard, to show what she 
is.” 

This giving her a chance was just what Everard 
dreaded the most. So long as his life with Josephine 
was in the future, he could be tolerably content, and 
even happy, but when it looked him square in the face, 
as something which must be met, he shrank from meet- 
ing it.. 

"“Oh, I cannot do that, at least, not yet,” he said. 
rt li will hamper me so in my studies. I cannot tell 
father, and bear the storm sure to follow. Jorephin* 

must stay where she is till I see what I can do.” 


*18 THE HOUSE OF CARDS LA-JINS TO FALL. 


“ Bat is that best for her ?” Beatrice asked. ‘ £ What 
soifc of a woman is her mother ? She may be a lady, and 
still be very poor. What is she, Everard ?” 

He had refrained from speaking of Josephine’s ante* 
cedents to Beatrice. He would rather she should not 
know all he knew of the family. It would be kinder to 
Josephine to spare her so much ; but when Beatrice ap¬ 
pealed to him with regard to the mother, he told just 
who Mrs. Fleming was. 

Bee Belknap was a born aristocrat, and some of the 
bluest blood of Boston was in her veins. Indeed, she 
traced her pedigree back to Miles Standish on her 
father’s side, while her mother came straight down from 
a Scottish earl, who married the rector’s daughter. She 
was proud of her birth, and the training she had received 
at home and abroad had tended to increase tins pride, 
and it was hard for her to understand just how people 
like Roxie Fleming could stand on the same social plat¬ 
form with herself. She knew they did, but she rebelled 
against it, and for a moment Josephine’s cause was in 
danger of being lost so far as she was concerned. She 
had thought of her as probably the daughter of some 
poor, but highly respectable farmer, or mechanic, whose 
mother took boarders, as many women do to make a lit¬ 
tle money, and whose daughters, perhaps, stitched shoes 
or made bonnets, as New England girls often do, but 
now that she knew the truth she stood for a moment 
aghast, and then, her strong, sensible nature asserted it¬ 
self and whispered to her, “ a man’s a man for a’ that.” 
Josephine was no more to blame for the accident of her 
birth than was she, Beatrice Belknap, to be praised for 
hers. “ I’ll stand by her all the same,” she said to her¬ 
self, but she did not urge quite so strenuously upon Ev¬ 
erard the necessity of telling his father at once, for she 
felt sure the irascible judge would leave no stone un¬ 
turned to ascertain who his daughter-in-law was, and that 
the ascertaining would result even worse than Everard 
feared. 

“ It may be better to keep silent a little longer,” she 
said, and meanwhile she’d turn the matter over in her 
own mind and see what she could do to help him. 

“Butin order to have any peace at home I must tell 
father that you refused me,” Everard said, “ and I have 


TEE HOUSE OF CARDS BE OAFS TO FALL . 119 


hoi yet gone through the farce of offering myself, or 
you of refusing the offer.” 

Then, with the ghost of a smile on his face he arose, 
and standing before Beatrice, continued : ‘ Bee, will you 
marry me?” 

“ No, Everard, I will not,” was Bee’s repljq as she, 
too, rose, and looked at him, with eyes in which the hot 
tears gathered swiftly, while there came to her suddenly 
a feeling that she had lost something which had been 
very dear to her, and that her intercourse with Everard 
could never again be just what it had been. It is true, 
she had never seriously thought of him as her future 
husband, but she knew that others had thought it, and 
with his words, “ Bee, will you marry me ?” it came to 
her with a great shock that possibiy, under other cir¬ 
cumstances, she might have answered yes. But all that 
was over now. He had put a bar between them, and by 
neither word nor look must she tempt him to cross it; so, 
brushing her tears away with a quick, impatient gesture, 
and forcing a merry laugh, which sounded not unlike a 
hysterical sob, she said, “ What children we are, Ever¬ 
ard.” 

Yes, they were children in one sense, and in another 
the man and woman was strong within them, and Ever¬ 
ard saw something in the girl’s eyes which startled him, 
and made his heart throb quickly as he, too, thought “ it 
might have been.” But with the instincts of a noble, 
true man he forced the new-born feeling down, and tak¬ 
ing both her hands in his held them while he said : 

“ You must forgive me, Bee, for seeming to insult 
you with words which were a mere farce. You have 
been my friend,—the best I ever had,—and your friend¬ 
ship and society are very dear to me, who never knew a 
sister’s love. Can I keep them still after showing you 
just the craven coward and sneak I am ?” 

“ Yes, Everard, you may trust me. I will always bo 
your friend, and your wife’s friend as well,” Beatrice re¬ 
plied, and then Everard went away, and she vms left 
alone to think of the story she had heard, and to realize 
more and more all she had lost in losing Everard. The 
boy, whom she had teased, and ridiculed, and tormented, 
and who had likened her to his grandmother, had be¬ 
come so necessary to her in Ins fresh young manhood, 


12 THE HOUSE OF CARDS BEGINS TO FALL. 


that it was hard to give him up , but Bee was equal tc 
the emergency, and with a little laugh she said : 

“On the whole I am glad there is one man whom 1 
cannot get upon my string, as Aunt Rachel would say ; 
but that this man should be the boy who I once vowed 
should offer himself to me and be refused, or I would 
build a church in Omaha, is mortifying to my pride. 
He has offered and been refused, and so the church obli¬ 
gation is null and void. But I must do something as a 
memorial of this foolishness, which I never dreamed of 
until to-night. I wonder if Sister Rhoda Baker don’t 
want something for her church by this time. I’ll go and 
see to-morrow, and take her mother to ride. It’s an age 
since I gave her an airing, and my purple velvet will 
contrast beautifully with her quilted hood and black 
shawl.” 

Bee Belknap was a queer compound, and when, next 
morning, the distant relative who lived with her as chap¬ 
eron, and whom she called Aunt Rachel, said to her : 
“ What was that Forrest here for so late? I thought 
he’d never go,” she answered, readily : 

“ He was here to ask me to marry him, and I refused 
him flat.” 

“ You refused him ! Are you crazy, Beatrice ?” Aunt 
Rachel exclaimed, putting down her coffee-cup and star¬ 
ing blankly at the young girl, who replied : 

“ Y r es. Have you any objections ?” 

“Objections! Beatrice Belknap! I thought this 
was sure. See if you don’t go through the woods and 
take up with a crooked stick at last. Do you know how 
old you are ?” 

“l r es, auntie. I am twenty-three ; just eleven 
months and fifteen days older than Everard, and in 
seven years more I shall be thirty, and an old maid. 
After that, tortures cannot wring my age from me. 
Honestly, though, Everard was not badly hurt. He will 
recover in time, and maybe marry,—well, raarrv Rossie ; 
who knows ?” 

“ Marry Rossie ! That child,—homely as a hedge 
fence !” was the indignant reply of Aunt Rachel, who 
was not always choice in her selection of language. 

“Rosamond is fifteen, and growing pretty every 
day,” Beatr ce retorted, always ready to defend her pe^ 


THE HOUSE OF CARTS BE GIFTS TO FALL. 121 


M She has magnificent eyes and hair, and the sweetest 
voice I ever heard. Her complexion is clearing up, her 
face and figure rounding out, and she will yet be a 
beauty, and cast mo in the shade, with mv crows-feet and 
wrinkles ; see if she does not; but I cannot afford to quar¬ 
rel any longer ; I am going to take Widow Ricketts out 
to ride, so good-by, auntie, and don’t be sorry that I am 
not to leave you yet. You and I will have many years 
together, I hope.” 

She kissed her aunt, and went gayly from the room, 
singing as she went. An hour later and she was whirl¬ 
ing along the smooth river road, with the quilted hood 
and black shawl of Widow Ricketts, w T ho, unused to 
such fast driving, held on to the side of the little phae¬ 
ton, sweating like rain with fear, and feeling very glad 
when at last she was set down safe and sound at her 
daughter’s door without a broken neck. 

Rhoda’s church was wanting a new furnace, and 
Bee’s check for fifty dollars made the heart of the good 
Nazarite woman very warm and tender toward the girl 
who had once pretended to have the “ power,” just for 
the fun of the thing ! On reaching home Bee found a 
note from Everard, which had been left by a boy from 
the village, during her absence, and wdiich ran as 
follows : 

“ Dear Bee :—After leaving you last night, I went 
to father, who was waiting for me, and goaded me into 
telling him everything there was to tell of Josephine. 
Of course, he turned me out of doors immediately, and 
said I was no longer his son. I might sleep in my room 
during the night, but in the morning I must be off. But 
I did not sleep there. I couldn’t, with his dreadful lan¬ 
guage in my ears. If I had been guilty of murder, he 
could not have talked worse to me than he did, or called 
me viler names. So I packed a few things in my valise, 
and staid in the carriage-house till it was light. Now, I 
am waiting this to you, and shall have some boy to 
deliver it, as I take the first train South. I have given 
up law, and shall find something in Cincinnati or Louis¬ 
ville which will bring me ready money. If you should 
wish to communicate with me. direct to the Spencer 
House. 1 shall get my mail there a while, as I know 

6 


132 THE HOUSL OF CARDS GOES DOWN. 


the clerk. Don’t tell Rossie of Josephine. I’d rathef 
she should not know. God bless her and you, ray best 
friends in all the world. And so, good-by. I’ve sown 
the wind, and am reaping the whirlwind with a ven¬ 
geance. J. E. Fobbest.” 


CHAPTER XVI. 

THE HOUSE OF CAEDS GOES DOWN. 

T was past eleven when Everard left Elm 
Park after his interview with Beatrice, and 
nearly half-past when he reached home, 
expecting to find the house dark, and the 
family in bed. But as he walked slowly up 
the avenue, he saw a light in his father’s room, and the 
figure of a man walking back and forth, as if impatient 
of something. 

“ Can it be he is waiting for me ?” he thought, and a 
sigh escaped him as he felt how unequal he was to a con¬ 
flict with his father that night. 

Entering the hall as noiselessly as possible he groped 
his way up stairs to the broad landing, when the dark¬ 
ness was suddenly broken by a flood of light which 
poured from Rossie’s room, and Rossie herself appeared 
in the door, holding her gray flannel dressing-gown 
together with one hand, and with the other shedding her 
hair back from her face, which looked tired and sleepy, 
as she said: “Oh, I’m so glad you’ve come. Your father 
wants to see you, and asked me to sit up and tell you 
when you came. Good-night!” and she stepped back 
into her room, while he passed slowly down the hall, and 
she saw him knock at his father’s room at the far end of 
the passage. 

“Well, my son, so you’ve come at last,” the judge 
said to him, but there was no anger in his voice, only a 
slight tone of irritation that he had been kept up so late. 
“You have been to see Bee, I take it, and, from the 
length of time you staid, conclude that you settled the 
little matter we were talking about this morning.” 








THE HOUSE OF CARDS GOES DOWK m 


“Yes, father, we settled it,” Everard said, but his 
voice was not the voice of a hopeful, happy lover, and 
his father looked suspiciously at him as he continued : 

“ With what result?” 

“ Beatrice refused me ;” and Everard’s voice was still 
lower and more hopeless. 

“Refused you ! ’Ti3 false ! You never asked her P 
the judge exclaimed, growing angry at once. 

“ Father !” and now Everard looked straight in his 
aire’s face, “ do you mean to say I lie, and I your son 
and mother’s ?” 

The judge knew that in times past Everard had been 
guilty of almost everything a fast young man ever is guilty 
of, but he had never detected him in a falsehood, and he 
was obliged to answer him now: 

“No, not exactly lie, though I don’t understand why 
she should refuse you. If I know anything about girls 
she is not averse to you, and here you come and tell me 
that she refused you flat. There’s some trick some 
where; something I do not understand. Beatrice likes 
you well enough to marry you, and you know it. v Why 
then did she refuse you, unless you made a bungle of the 
whole thing, and showed her you were not more than 
half in earnest, as upon my soul I believe you are not; 
but you shall be. I’ve had my mind on that marriage 
for years, and I will not easily give it up. Do you hear 
or care for what I am saying ?” he asked, in a voice 
growing each instant louder and more excited. 

“Yes, father,” Everard answered wearily, with the 
air of one who did not really comprehend. “ I hear,— 
I care,—but I am so tired to-night. Let me off, won’t 
you, till another time, when I can talk with you better 
and tell you all I feel.” 

“No, I won’t let you off,” the judge replied. “I 
intend to know why you are so indifferent to Bee. Is it, 
as I have suspected, that yellow-haired woman ? Because 
if it is, by the lord Harry, you will be sorry ! She shall 
never come here; never! The bold-faced, vulgar 
thing!” 

“ Father !” and Everard roused himself at last, “ yc u 
must not speak so of Josephine. I will not listen to it ” 

That was the speech which fired the train, and the 
judge grew purple with rage as he demanded by what 


THE HOUSE OF CAIWS GOES DOWN. 


m 

right his son forbade him to speak as he pleased of Jose 
phi ne. 

“ What is she to you ?” he asked, and with white, 
quivering lips Everard answered back : 

“She is my wife!” 

The words were spoken almost in a whisper, but they 
echoed like thunder through the room, and seemed to 
repeat themselves over and over again during the moment 
of utter silence which ensued. Everard had told his 
secret., and felt better already, as if the worst was over; 
while his lather stood motionless and dumb, glaring upon 
him w: h a baleful light in his eyes, which boded no 
good to the sorely-pressed young man, who was the first 
to speak. 

“ Let me tell you all about it,” he said, “ and then 
you may kill me if you choose; it does not matter 
much.” 

“ Yes, tell me ;” his father said, hoarsely ; and with¬ 
out lifting up his bowed head, or raising his voice, which 
was strangely sad and low, Everard told his story,— 
every word of it, even to Josephine’s parentage and 
Rossie’s generous conduct in his behalf. 

Of Josephine herself he said as little as possible, and 
did not by the slightest word hint at his growing aver¬ 
sion for her. That would not help matters now. She 
was his wife, and he called her so two or three times, and 
did not see how at the mention of that name his father 
ground his teeth together and clutched at his cravat as 
if to tear it off, and give himself more room to breathe. 

“ I have told you everything now, father,” Everard 
said in conclusion, “everything there is to tell, except 
that since that night I have not committed a single act 
of which I am not willing you should know. I have 
tried to do my best, as I promised mother I would the 
last time I talked with her. She believed in me then 
she would forgive me if she were here, and for her sake 
I ask you to forgive me too. I am so sorry,—sorrier 
than you can possibly be. Will you forgive me for 
mother’s sake ?” 

He had made his plea and waited for the answer. 
He knew how ungovernable his father’s temper, was at 
times, but ’t was so long since he had met it in its worst 

form that he was wholly unprepared for the terrible 


THE HOUSE OF CARDS GOES DOWN. 125 


burst of passion to which his father gave vent. Me bad 
listened quietly to his son’s story, without comment oi 
interruption, but his anger had grown stronger and fiercer 
with each detail, so that even the mention oi his dead 
wife had no power to move him now. On the contrary, 
it exasperated him the more, and, at Everard’s appeal 
for pardon, the storm burst and he began in a voice of 
such withering scorn and contempt that Everard looked 
wonderingly at the old man, who shook with rage and 
whose face was livid in spots. There was nothing to be 
hoped for from him, and Everard bowed his head again, 
while t he tempest raged on. 

“Forgive you for your mother’s sake! Dastard! 
How dare you cringe and creep behind her name, when 
you have disgraced her in her coffin? Forgive you? 
Never ! So long as I have sense and reason left!” 

This was the preface to what followed, for, taking 
up the case as a lawyer takes up the case of the criminal 
whom it is his duty to prosecute, the judge went 
through it step by step, speaking first of the puling 
weakness which would allow one to fall into the damna 
ble trap set for him by a crafty, designing woman, then 
of the base hypocrisy, the living lie of years, the sys¬ 
tematic deception, the mean cowardice, the sneaking, 
contemptible spirit which would even take money from 
a child to squander on that yellow-haired Jezebel, the 
insult to Beatrice, asking her to marry him just for a 
farce, and lastly, the audacity in thinking such enormities 
could bo forgiven. 

Everard did not think they could by the time his case 
vras summed up. He did not think of much of anything, 
he was so benumbed and bewildered, and his father’s 
voice sounded like some great roaring river very fa t 
away. 

“ Forgive you !” it said again, with all the concen¬ 
trated bitterness of hatred. “ Forgive you ! Never, so 
long as I live, will I forgive or own you for my son, o? 
in any way recognize that jade as your wife, b rom this 
time on you are none of mine. I disown you. I cast 
you off, forever. You may sleep here to-night, but in 
the morning you leave, and go back to your darling and 
her high-born family, but you ii never cross my threshold 


120 THE HOUSE OF CARDS GOES DOWN. 


again while I am living. Do you hear, or are you a 
stone, a clod, that you sit there so quietly ?” 

His son’s demeanor exasperated him, and he would 
have been better pleased had Everard fought him inch 
by inch, and given him back scorn for scorn. But this 
Everard could not do ; he was too completely crushed to 
offer a word in his own defense. Only at the last, when 
he heard himself disowned, he roused and said, “Do you 
mean it, father? Mean to turn me from your house 

£< Mean it ? Yes ; don’t you understand plain lan¬ 
guage when yon hear it?” thundered the judge. 

“ Yes, father, I understand, and I will go,” Everard 
said, rising slowly, as if it were painful to move ; then, 
half staggering to the door, he stopped a moment and 
added, “ I deserve a great deal, father, but not all you 
have given me. You have been too hard w 7 ith me, and 
you will be sorry for it some day. Good-by ; I am 
going.” 

“Go, then, and never come back,” came like a savage 
growl from the infuriated man, and those were the last 
words which ever passed between the father and the son. 

“ Good-by, father, I am going.” 

“ Go, then, and never come back.” 

They sounded through the stillness of the night, and 
Everard shivered, as he went through the long, dark hall 
and up the stairs, where the old clock was striking one, 
and where the light from Rossie’s door again shone into 
the gloom, and Rossie’s face looked out, pale and scared 
this time, for she had heard the judge’s angry voice, and 
knew a dreadful battle was in progress. So she wrapped 
a shawl about her and waited till it was over, and she 
heard Everard coming up the stairs. Then she went to 
him, for something told the motherly child that he was 
in need of comfort and sympathy, and such crumbs as 
she could give she would. But she was not prepared for 
the cowed, humiliated look of utter hopelessness, and not 
knowing what she was doing, she drew him into her 
room, and making him sit down, she took his icy hands 
and rubbed and chafed them, while she said, “ What is 
it, Mr. Everard ? Tell me all about it. I heard your 
father’s voice so loud and angry that it frightened me, 
and I sat up to wait for you and tell you how sorry I am* 
What is it ?” 


THE HOUSE OF CARDS GOES DOWN. 127 


Her sympathy was very sweet to Everard, and 
touched him so closely that for a moment he was unable 
to speak ; then he said : 

“ I cannot tell you, Rossie, what it is ; only that it is 
something which dates far back, before mother died, 
and father has just found it out, and has turned me from 
his door.” ^ 

“ Oh, Mr. Everard, you must have misunderstood 
him ; he did not mean that. You are mistaken,” Rossie 
cried, in great distress ; and Everard replied : 

“ When a man calls his son a sneak, a coward, a clod, 
a villain, a scoundrel, a scamp, a hypocrite, a liar, there 
can be no misunderstanding the language, or what it 
means; and father called me all these names, and more, 
and said things I never can forget. I deserve a great 
deal, but not all this. Oh, if I had died wears and years 
ago!” V 

His chin quivered and his voice trembled as ftg talked, 
while Rossie’s tears flowed like rain as she stohd, not 
holding his hands now, but gently stroking the hauKof 
the head bowed down so low with its load of grief and 
shame. 

“ Mr. Everard,” she said at last, “ has this trouble 
anything to do with Joe Fleming?” 

“Yes, everything!” Everard answered, bitterly; and 
Rossie continued: 

“ Oh, I am so sorry ! I hoped you had broken with 
him forever. You have been so good and nice, and kept 
that pledge so beautifully! How could you have any¬ 
thing to do with Joe ?” 

“ 1 tell you it dates far back,—a hundred years ago, 
it seems to me. I got into an awful scrape, from which 
I cannot extricate myself,” Everard said, and Rossie 
continued: 

“I see, you did something which Joe knows about, 
and so has you in his power, and you have just told your 
father.” 

“Yes, that is it, very nearly,” Everard replied. 

“ I wish you’d tell me what it is. I ’most know I 
could help you; at all events, I could, speak to your 
father; he is always kind to me, and will listen to rea¬ 
son, I think,” Rossie said; and then Everard looked up 
quickly, and spoke decidedly: 


128 THE HOUSE OF CARDS GOES DOWN. 


“ Rossie, you must not speak to father for me. ! 
will not have it. He has taunted me enough with ‘hang¬ 
ing on to the apron-strings of a little girl;’ that’s what 
he said, referring to my having taken money from you ; 
for you see I told him everything, even to the hair you 
sold, and I think that made him more furious than all the 
rest. It was a dastardly thing in me, and there must be 
no repetition. You must not interfere by so much as a 
word; remember that when I am gone, for I am going to 
Cincinnati first, and if I find nothing to do there, I shall 
go on to Louisville, and possibly farther South. I shall 
write to you as soon as I know what I am going to do,— 
perhaps before; and, Rossie, among all the pleasant 
memories of my old home, the very sweetest will be the 
memory of the little girl who always in my sorest need 
lightened, if she could not remove, the burden. Hush, 
Rossie; don’t cry so for me. I am not worth it,” he 
said, as she burst into a passionate fit of weeping. 

He had risen now and was bending over her and 
holding her hands in his, and when he saw her sobbing 
thus he wound his arm around her, and drawing her 
close to him, tried to quiet and comfort her. 

“Don’t, Rossie, don’t ; you unman me entirely, to see 
you give way so ; I’d rather remember you as the brave 
little woman who always controlled herself.” 

Down over Rossie’s shoulders her unbound hair was 
falling, and lifting up one of the wavy tresses. Everard 
continued, “ I shall be gone in the morning, Rossie, and 
I want to take with me a lock of this hair. It will be a 
constant reminder of the sacrifice you once made for me, 
and keep me from temptation. May I have it, Rossie 

She would have given him her head had he asked for 
it, and the lock was soon severed from the rest and laid 
in his hand. Holding it to the light he said, “ Look 
how long, and bright, and even it is. You have beau¬ 
tiful hair, Rossie.” 

He meant to divert her mind, but her heart was very 
sore, and her face tear-stained and wet as she tied the 
hair with a bit of ribbon, and placing it in a paper, 
handed it to him. 

“Thank you, Rossie,” he said ; “no man ever had a 
dearer sister than I, and if I am ever anything, it will be 
wholly owing to your influence and Bee’s.” 


TEE NEXT BAY. 


m 


At the mention of Bee’s name Rossie looked quickly 
up, struck with a sudden idea, 

“ Oh, Mr. Everard,” she said, “ how can you go away 
and leave Miss Beatrice ? and I thought you and she 
would some time be married, and we should all be so 
happy.” 

“That can never be,” Evtiard replied; ( * Beatrice 
will not have me ; I cannot have her. We settled that 
to-night, but are the best of friends, and I esteem her as 
one of the noblest girls I ever knew. You may tell her 
so if she ever speaks of me after I am gone ; tell her 
that with you she represents to me all that is purest and 
sweetest in womanhood ; and now, Rossie, I must say 
good-by. It is almost two o’clock.” 

He took her upturned face between both his hands 
and held it a moment, while he looked earnestly into the 
clear, bright eyes which met his without a shadow of 
consciousness, except the consciousness that he was going 
away, and this was his farewell. Then he stooped and 
kissed her forehead and said, “ God bless you, Rosamond; 
be a daughter to my father. You are all the child he 
has now.” 

An hour later and Rosamond had cried herself to 
Bleep, aad did not hear Everard’s cautious footsteps, as, 
with his satchel in his hand, he stole down the stairs and 
out to the carriage-house, where he passed the few re¬ 
maining hours of the November night, feeling that h« 
was indeed an outcast and a wanderer. 


CHAPTER XVII. 

THE NEXT DAY. 

W much or how soundly the judge slept 
after that stormy interview with his son, or 
whether there came to him any twinges of 
regret for all the bitter things he had said, 
none ever knew. He prided himself upon 
seldom changing his mind, when once it was made up 
and so, pjerhaps, his temper was still at a boiling pitch 
when promptly at his usual hour he descended to the b? eak 
6 * 








130 


THE NEXT DAT. 


fast-room, and bade John bring in the coffee and eggs. 
His face was very red, and his eyes were blood-shot and 
watery, and his hands, which held the morning paper, 
trembled so, that John glanced curiously at him as he 
brought in the breakfast and arranged it upon the table. 

“ Where’s Miss Rosamond and my son ? Are they 
not ready?” the judge asked a little irritably, for he 
required every one to be prompt where he was concerned. 

His questions were partly answered by the appearance 
of Rosamond, who looked as fresh and bright as usual, 
as she took her seat at the table and began to pour the 
coffee. She had slept soundly, and did not feel the 
effects of last night’s excitement, except in a little tremor 
of fear and anxiety with regard to Everard. Whatever 
happened, she was not to interfere or plead for him. He 
had said so expressly, and she must obey, and as she 
looked furtively at the inflamed face opposite her, she 
felt for the first time in her life a great fear of the man, 
who, as Everard did not appear, said angrily, “ Go to my 
son’s room and see what is keeping him; and tell him I 
sent you,” he added, as if that message would necessarily 
hasten the laggard young man. 

Then Rossie dropped her spoon and sat shaking in 
her chair until the servant came swiftly back, with 
wonder and alarm upon his face, saying that his young 
master was not there and his bed had not been slept in. 

“ Not there ! and his bed not slept in ! What does 
it mean? Where is he, then?” the judge asked, in a 
voice that made Rossie tremble even more than the an¬ 
nouncement that Everard was gone. 

“ I dunno, mass’r, where he can be. I know he’s not 
thar, an’ I disremember seen’ him since he went out last 
night after dinner. Maybe he didn’t come back.” 

“ Blockhead, he did come back, and he’s here now, 
most likely. I’ll see for myself,” said the judge, as he 
started for his son’s room, followed by Rossie and John, 
the latter of whom said : 

“Very well, mass’r, you see for yourself; he gone 
sure, an’ left the bed as Axie fix it for him, an’ leinme 
see, yes, shoo nuff, his big satchel gone wid him, and his 
odder suit. I shouldn’t wonder if he’s gone away,” the 
loquacious negro continued, as he investigated the closet 
and room. 


TRW NEXT DAT. 


181 


“ You black hound,” roared the infuriated judge, 
“ why should he run away ? What had he to run from ? 
Leave the chamber instantly, before I kick you down 
stairs, for giving your opinion.” 

“Yes, mass’r, I’s gwine,” was John’s reply as he dis¬ 
appeared from the scene, leaving the judge and Rossie 
alone. 

The latter was white as a sheet, and leaned against 
the mantel, for she knew now that Everard was really 
gone. Her paleness and agitation escaped the judge’s 
attention, for just then he picked up from the dressing- 
table the few lines that Everard had left for him, and 
which read as follows : 

“Father: —You have always said your yea was yea, 
and your nay nay, and I know you meant it when you 
bade me leave your house and never come back again ; 
so I have taken you at your word, and when you read 
this I shall be many miles away from Rothsay. After 
what you said to me I cannot even pass the night under 
this roof, and shall stay in the carriage-house until time 
to take the train. I am sorry for all that has passed, 
very sorry, and wish I could undo my part of it, but 
cannot, and so it is better for me to go. Good-by, 
father. Your son, Everard.” 

Notwithstanding the judge’s favorite assertion that 
his vea was yea, and his nay nay, it is very possible that 
if Everard had not taken him so promptly at his word, 
—if he had staid and gone to breakfast as usual and 
abo^t his daily avocations, his father would have cooled 
down gradually, and come in time to look the matter 
over soberly and make the best of it. But Everard had 
gone, and the irascible old man broke forth afresh into 
invectives against him, denouncing him as a dog, to 
sleep in carriage-houses, and then run away as if there 
was anything to run from. 

“ I’ll never forgive him,” he said to Rossie, who had 
stood silently by, appalled at the storm of passion such 
as she had never seen before, until at last, forgetful of 
Everard’s charge not to interfere, she roused in his de¬ 
fense. 

“Yes, you will forgive him,” she said. “You .mush 


THE NEXT HAY. 


132 

He is your son, and though £ don’t know what lie has 
done t o make you so angry, I am sure it is not sufficient 
for you to treat him so, and you will send for him to 
come back. I know where he’s gone. He came and toid 
me he was going, though I did not think it would be till 
this morning, when I hoped you might make it up.” 

“ And so he asked you to intercede for him as 5 011 
have been in the habit of doing, and maybe told you the 
nice thing he had done?” the judge said, forgetting her 
assertion that she did not know. 

“ No, sir. Oh, no,” Rossie cried. “ He did not ask 
me to intercede ; he said, on the contrary, that I was on 
no account to mention him, and he did not tell me what 
it was about, except that it happened long ago ; and he 
is so sorry and has tried to be good since. You 
know he was trying, Judge Forrest, and you will forgive 
him, won’t you ?” 

“ By the lord Harry, no ! and you would not ask it it 
you knew the disgrace lie has brought upon me. I’ll fix 
him !” was the judge’s angry reply, as he broke away 
from her, and striding down the stairs took his hat 
from the hall-stand, and hurried to his office. 

Great was the consternation among the servants in 
the Forrest household when it was known that Mr. 
Everard had left the house, and gone no one knew 
whither, and many were the whispered surmises as to 
the cause of his going. 

“Some row between him and old mass’r,” John said, 
and his solution of the mystery was taken as the correct 
one, the negroes all siding with Mr. Everard, who was 
very popular with them. 

Old Axie, the cook, ventured to question Rosamond a 
little ; but Rossie kept her own counsel, and, returning 
to her room, was crying herself sick, when a message 
came that Beatrice was asking for her. Immediately 
after reading Everard’s note, Beatrice had driven over 
to the Forrest House, where she was admitted at once to 
Rossie’s room, and heard all that Rosme knew of the 
events of the previous night. 

“Oh, Miss Beatrice,” Rossie said, “why did you re- 
fuse him? He told me about it, and I ’most know if 
you had said yes it would all have been so different.” 

Bee’s face was scarlet as she replied ; 


THE EE XT EAT. 


183 


“He told you that, and nothing more ?” 

“ Yes, he said something about wouldn't and couldn’t, 
—I don’t know what, for it is all confused to me. I 
thought you liked him and he liked you. He said he 
did, and he bade me tell you that you were the purest 
and sweetest woman in the world, and the best, or some- 
ming like that, and I think you ought to marry him, 1 
do,” and Rossie looked reproachfully at poor Bee, who 
was very pale, and whose voice was sad and low as she 
said : 

“ Rossie, I could not marry Everard if I wished to. 
There is an insuperable barrier, and if he did not ex¬ 
plain, I must not. Hid he give you any hint as to the 
cause of his quarrel with his father ?” 

“ No,” Rossie replied, “ only that it dated far back, 
and had something to do with Joe Fleming. I wish 
Joe was in Guinea ; he is always doing harm to Mr. 
Everard.” 

Beatrice could not forbear a smile at this ludicrous 
mistake of sex, and for a moment was tempted to tell 
the girl the truth ; but remembering that Everard had 
said Rossie was not to know, she held her peace, and 
Rossie was left in ignorance of Joe’s real identity. 

After leaving the Forrest House Beatrice drove past 
the judge’s office, with a faint hope that she might see 
him, and perhaps be of some service to Everard by 
speaking for him, should the opportunity occur. It was 
years since the judge, who once stood high in his profes¬ 
sion, had done much business, and his office was occupied 
by Mr. Russell, his legal adviser ; but he was frequently 
there, and as Bee drove down the street she saw him 
standing outside the door, glancing up and down as if 
looking for some one. Something in his attitude or 
manner induced her to rein her ponies up to the curb¬ 
stone, where she could speak to him. 

“Good morning, Judge Forrest,” she said, as natur¬ 
ally as if in her heart she did not think him a monster of 
cruelty. “ Were you waiting for me ?” 

“ No, not exactly,” and a faint smile appeared on the 
dark face,. “I was looking for Parker, but maybe you’ll 
do as well if you choose to step in and witness my will.” 

“Your will!” Bee replied, and all the blood ir. her 
body seemed surging into her face as she felt intuitively 


134 


THE NEXT DAY. 


that a will made just now would be disastrous to Ever 
ard. “ Have you never made your will before ?” she 
asked, and he replied : 

“Never ; but it’s high time 1 did. Yes, high time !” 
and he shook his head defiantly at something invisible. 
/■‘Can you go in as well as not ?” he continued; and, 
[summoning all her courage for the conflict, Beatrice said 
k to him : 

“ I am willing to go in, but not to witness any will 
which is in any way adverse to Everard.” 

“ Who said it was adverse to him, the dog? Do you 
know how he has disgraced me ? but yes, you do ; be 
said he told you all, and insulted you with an offer, and 
now he has run away as a crowning feat. If you can 
forgive him, I can’tand the judge trembled from head 
to foot as he talked of his son to Beatrice, who came 
bravely to the rescue, and standing nobly for Everard, 
tried to bring his father to reason, and make him say he 
would forgive his son and endure the wife because she 
was his wife. 

But she might as well have given her words to the 
winds, for any effect they had. The judge was past all 
reason, and only grew more and more angry as he talked 
of the disgrace which Everard’s marriage had brought 
upon his name. Finding that what she said was of no 
avail in the judge’s present mood, Beatrice bade him 
good morning and drove away, resolving to see him 
again as soon as his temper had cooled, and try what she 
could do by way of a reconciliation. 

The next morning breakfast was much later than 
usual at Elm Park, for Beatrice had slept but little, and 
sue was still in bed when her maid brought a message to 
her from Rosamond to the effect that she must come at 
once to the Forrest House, as the judge had been smitten 
suddenly with apoplexy, and was lying in a half uncon¬ 
scious condition, nearly resemblirg death. Terrified 
bayond measure, Beatrice dressed herself hurriedly, and 
was soon on her way to the house, where she found mat¬ 
ters even worse than she feared. 



THE SHADOW OF DEATH. 


t85 


CHAPTER XYIII. 


THE SHADOW OF DEATH. 



REAKFAST at the Forrest House had been 
late that morning, for the judge, who was 
usually so prompt, did not make his appear¬ 
ance, and Rosamond waited for him until the 
clock struck eight. Then, as the minute-hand 
crept on and he still did not come down, she went to the 
door of his room and knocked, but there came no answer, 
though she thought she heard a faint sound like the moan 
of some one in pain. Knocking still louder, with her 
ear to the keyhole, she called, “Judge Forrest, are you 
awake ? Do you hear me ? Do you know how late it 
is ?” 


This time there was an effort to reply, .and without 
waiting for anything further, Rosamond went unhesitat¬ 
ingly into the room. The shutters wem closed and the 
heavy curtains drawn, but even in the darkness Rossie 
could discern the white, unnatural face upon the pillow, 
and the eyes which met hers so appealingly as the judge 
tried in vain to speak, for the blue lips gave forth only 
an unmeaning sound, which might have meant anything. 
There was a loud call for help, and in a moment the 
room was full of the terrified servants, who ran over and 
against each other in their frantic haste to execute Miss 
Rossie’s orders, given so rapidly. 

“ Open the shutters and windows wide and let in the 
air, and bring some camphor, and hartshorn, and ice- 
water, quick, and somebody go for the doctor and Miss 
Belknap as soon as they can, and don’t make such a 
noise with your crying, it’s only a,—a,—a fit of some 
kind ; he will soon be better,” Rossie said, with a forced 
calmness, as she bent over the helpless man and rubbed 
and chafed the hands w T hich, the moment she let go of 
them, fell with a thud upon the bed-clothes, where they 
lay helpless, nerveless, dead, as it were, to all action or 
feeling ; and while she rubbed and worked over him and 
asked him questions he could not answer, his eyes fol¬ 
lowed her constantly, as if with some wish the dumb 
lips could not express. 






133 


TEE EIIAEOW OF EE ATE, 


The doctor was soon there, but a glance at his patient 
convinced him that his services were of no avail, except 
to make the sufferer a little more comfortable. It was 
partly apoplexy, partly paralysis, induced by some great 
excitement or over-work, he said to Rosamond, whom bts 
questioned closely as to the judge’s appearance the pre¬ 
vious night. He had come home about four o’clock, 
Rosamond said, and eaten a very hearty dinner, and 
drank more wine than usual. She noticed, too, that his 
face was very red, and that he smoked a long time after 
dinner before he came into the parlor where she was 
getting her lessons. He had asked her to play some old- 
fashioned tunes, which he liked best, he said, because 
they took him back to the time when he was a boy at 
home in Carolina. Then he told her of his home and his 
mother, and talked of his dead wife, and said he hoped 
Forrest House would one day have a mistress as sweet 
and good as she was. When at last he said good-night, 
he kissed her forehead and said, “My child ; you are all 
I have left me now. Heaven bless you !” then he went 
up stairs, and Rossie knew nothing more till she found 
him in the morning. 

There was no hope ; it was merely a matter of a few 
days at most, the doctor said ; and then he asked where 
Everard was, saying, he ought to be sent for. This 
was to Beatrice and Rossie both, after the former had 
arrived and before she had seen the judge. The two 
girls exchanged glances, and Beatrice was the first to 
speak. 

“Everard left home for Cincinnati early yesterday 
morning,” she said, “ but I know his address, and will 
telegraph at once.” 

“Very well,” the doctor replied, looking curiously at 
her, for he had heard a flying rumor of something wrong 
at the Forrest House, which had driven the heir away 

Accordingly, a telegram was sent to the Spencer 
House, Cincinnati, to the effect that Judge Forrest was 
dangerously ill, and Everard must come immediately. 

“ Hot here, and has not been here,” was the answer 
telegraphed back ; and then a message went to the Galt 
House, in Louisville, where Everard always stopped, but 
that too elicited the answer “ Not here.” 

Where was he, then,—the outcast son,—when his 


THE SHADOW OF DEATH. 


187 


father lay dying, with that white, scared, troubled look 
upon his face, and that vain effort to speak and let his 
wishes be known. Dead his body was already, so far aa 
power to move was concerned, but the mind was appar¬ 
ently unimpaired, and expressed itself in the agonized 
expression of his face, and the entreating, beseeching, 
pleading look of the dim eyes which followed Rosamond 
40 constantly and seemed trying to communicate with her. 

“ There is something he wants,” Rossie said to Bea¬ 
trice, who shared her vigils, “ and if I could only guess 
what it was ;” then, suddenly starting up, she hurried to 
his side, and taking the poor, palsied hand in hers rubbed 
and caressed it pityingly, and smoothing his thin hair, 
said to him, “Judge Forrest, you want something, and I 
can’t guess what it is, unless,—unless—she hesitated 
a moment, for as yet Everard’s name had not been men¬ 
tioned in his hearing, and she did not know what the 
effect might be ; but the eyes, fastened so eagerly upon 
her, seemed challenging her to go on, and at last she 
said,—“ unless it is Mr. Everard. Has it anything to do 
with him ?” 

Oh, how hard the lips tried to articulate, but they 
only quivered convulsively and gave forth a little moan¬ 
ing* sound, but in the lighting up of the eager eyes, 
which grew larger and brighter, Rossie thought she read 
the answer, and emboldened by it went on to say that 
they had telegraphed to Cincinnati and Louisville both, 
and had that morning dispatched a message to Memphis 
and New Orleans. 

“ We shall surely find him somewhere,” she contin¬ 
ued, “and he will come at once. I do not think he was 
angry with you when he went away, he spoke so kindly 
of you.” 

Again the lips tried to speak, but could not ; only the 
eyes fastened themselves wistfully upon Rosamond, fol¬ 
lowing her wherever she went, and as if by some subtle 
magnetism bringing her back to the bedside, where she 
stayed almost constantly. How those wide-open, never 
sleeping eyes haunted and troubled her and made her at 
last almost afraid to stay alone with them, and meet their 
constant gaze ! Beatrice had been taken sick, and was 
unable to come to the Forrest House, and the judge 
seemed so much more quiet when Rossie was sitting 


133 


THE SHADOW OF DEATH. 


where he could look her straight in the face, that the 
man hired to nurse him staid mostly in the adjoining 
room, and Rossie kept her vigils alone, wearying herself 
with the constantly recurring vjuestion as to what it was 
the sick man wished to tell her. Something, sure, and 
something important, too,—for as the days went on, and 
there came no tidings of his son, the eyes grew larger, 
and seemed at times about to leap from their sockets, to 
escape the horror and remorse so plainly written in them. 
What was it he wished to say ? What was it troubling 
the old man so, and forcing out the great drops of sweat 
about his lips and forehead, and making his face a won¬ 
der to look upon ? Rosamond felt sometimes as if sim 
should go mad herself sitting by him, with those wild 
eyes watching her so intently that if she moved away foi 
a moment they called her back by their strange power, 
and compelled her not only to sit down again by them, 
but to look straight into their depths, where the unspeak¬ 
able trouble lay struggling to free itself. 

“Judge Forrest,” Rossie said to him the fifth day 
after his attack, “ you wish to tell me something and you 
cannot, but perhaps I can guess by mentioning ever so 
many things. I’ll try, and if you mean no look straight 
at me as you are looking now; if you mean yes,, turn 
your eyes to the window, or shut them, as you choose. 
Do you understand me ?” 

There was the shadow of a smile on the wan face, 
and the heavy eyelids closed, in token that he did com¬ 
prehend. Rossie knew’ the judge was dying, that at the 
most only a few days more were his, and ought not 
some one to tell him? Was it right to let that fierce, 
turbulent spirit launch out upon the great sea of eternity 
unwarned ? 

“ Oh, if I was only good, I might help him, perhaps,” 
she thought ; “ at any rate he ought to know, and maybe 
it would make him kinder toward Everard,” for it was 
of him she meant to speak, through this novel channel 
of communication between herself and the sick man. 

She must have the father’s forgiveness with which to 
comfort the son, and with death staring him in the face 
he would not withhold it ; so she said to him : 

“You are very sick, Judge Forrest ; you know that, 
don’t you ?” ' 


THE SHADOW OF DEATH. 


m 


The eyes went slowly to the window and back again, 
while she continued in her plain, outspoken way : 

“ Do you think I ought to tell you if you are going 
to die ?” 

There was a momentary spasm of terror on the face* 
a look such as a child has when shrinking from the rod, 
and then the eyes went to the window and back to Ros* 
eie, who said : 

“We hope for the best, but the case is very bad, and 
if you do not see Mr. Everard again shall I tell him you 
forgive him, and were sorry?” 

Quick as lightning the affirmative answer agreed 
upon between them was given, and in great delight 
Rossie exclaimed, “ I am so glad, for that is what you 
have tried so hard to tell me. You wish me to say this 
to Mr. Everard, and I will. Is that all ?” 

This time the eyes did not move, but looked into hers 
with such an earnest, beseeching expression, that she 
knew there was more to come. Question after question 
followed, but the eyes never left her face, and she could 
see the pupils dilate and the color deepen in them, as 
they seemed burning themselves into hers. 

“ What is it? What can it be?” she asked, despair¬ 
ingly. “Does it concern Mr. Everard in any way?” 

“Yes,” was the eye answer quickly given, and then 
Rosamond guessed everything she could think of, the 
possible and impossible, but the bright eyes kept their 
steady gaze upon her until, thinking of Joe Fleming, she 
asked, “Is somebody else concerned in it?” 

“ Yes,” was the response, and not willing to introduce 
Joe too soon, Rossie said : “Is it the servants?” 

“No.” 

“ Is it Beatrice ?” 

“No.” 

“Is it I?” 

She had no thought it was, and was astonished when 
the eyes went over to the window in token that it was. 

“Is it something that I can do?” she asked, and the 
eyes seemed to leap from her face to the window. 

“And shall I some time know what it is ?” 

Again the emphatic “ yes,” while the sweat ran like 
rain down his face. 

“Then, Judge Forrest,” and Rossis put on hef 


140 


THE SHADOW OF DEATH. 


wisest, oldest air, “you may be certain I’ll do it, for 1 
promise you solemnly that if anything comes to light 
which you left undone, and which I can do, I’ll do it, 
sure.” 

The eyes fairly danced now, and there was no mis' 
taking the joy shining in them, while the lips moved as 
if in blessing upon the girl, who took the helpless hand 
and found there was a slight pressure of the limp, life¬ 
less fingers which clung to hers. 

“Is that all? have you made me understand?” she 
asked, and he answered yes, and this time his eyes did 
not come back to her face, but closed wearily, and in a 
few moments he was sleeping quietly, as he had not done 
before since his illness. 

The sleep did him good, and he was far less restless 
after he awoke, and there was a more natural look in his 
face, but nothing could prolong his life, which hung 
upon a thread, and might go out at any time. There 
was no more following Rossie with his eyes, though he 
wanted her with him constantly, and seemed happier 
when she was sitting by him and ministering to his 
comfort. Sometimes he seemed to be in a deep reverie, 
with his eyes fixed on vacancy, and the great swmat-drops 
standing thickly on his face from the intensity of his 
thought. Of what was he thinking as he lay there so 
helpless ? of the wasted years which he could not now re¬ 
claim ? of sins committed and unforgiven in the days which 
lay behind him ? of the wife who had died in that room 
and on that very bed ? of the son to whom he had been 
so harsh and unforgiving, and who was not there now to 
cheer the dreary sick-room ? And did the unknown 
future loom up darkly before him and fill his soul with 
horror and dread of the world so near to him that he 
could almost see the boundary line which divides it 
from us ? 

Once, when Rossie said to him, “ Shall I read you 
something from the Bible ?” he answered her with the 
affirmative sign, and taking her own little Bible, which 
her mother once used, she opened it at the first chapter 
of Isaiah, and her eyes chancing to fall upon the 18 th 
verse, she commenced reading in a clear, sweet voice, 
which seemed to linger over the words, “Come now and 
let us reason together, saith the Lord ; though your sins 


THE SHADOW OF DEATH. 


141 


be as scarlet they shall be white as snow , ti ougk they 
be red like crimson, they shall he as wool.” There were 
spasms of pain distorting the pinched features on the 
pillow, as the judge listened to those blessed words of 
promise and hope for even the worst of sinners. Scarlet 
Bins and crimson sins all to be forgiven, and what were 
his but these ? 

“I do believe he’s concerned in his mind,” Rossie 
thought, as she looked at him ; and bending close to him 
she whispered, amid her own tears, “ Shall I say the 
Lord’s Prayer now ?” 

She knew he meant yes, and kneeling by his bedside, 
with her face on his hands, she said the prayer he 
could not join in audibly, though she was sure he prayed 
in his heart; and she wished so much for some one older, 
and wiser, and better than herself, to see and talk to 
him. 

“ Shall I send for the minister or for Mrs. Baker ?” 
she asked, feeling in that hour that there was something 
m the Nazarite woman, fanatical though she might be, 
which would answer to the sore need. 

But the judge wished neither the clergyman nor Mrs. 
Baker, then; he would rather that pure young girl should 
read to and pray with him, and he made her understand 
it, and every day from that time on until the end came, 
she sat by him and read, and said the simple prayers of 
her childhood, and his as well,—prayers which took him 
back to his boyhood and his mother’s knee, and made 
him sob sometimes like a little child, as he tried so often 
to repeat the one word “ forgive.” Gradually there 
came a more peaceful expression upon his face; his eyes 
lost that look of terror and dread, and the muscles about 
his mouth ceased to twitch so painfully, but of the 
change within,—if real change there had been,—he could 
not speak; that power was gone forever, and he lay, 
dead in limb a3 a stone, waiting for the end. 

Once Rossie said to him, “Do you feel better, Judge 
Forrest, about dying. I mean, are you afraid now ?” 

He looked her steadily in the face and she was sure 
his quivering lips said no to her last question. That was 
the day he died, and the day when news was received 
from Everard. He had returned to Louisville from a 
journey to Alabama, had found the telegrams, and was 


142 


THE JUDGE'S WILL. 


hastening home as fast as possible. Beat! ice was better, 
and able to be again at the Forrest House, but it wa3 
Rossie who took to the dying man the message from his 
son. He was lying perfectly quiet, every limb and 
muscle composed, and a look of calm restfulness on hia 
face, which lighted suddenly when Rossie said to him, 
“ We have heard from Mr. Everard ; he is on his way 
home ; he will be here to-night. You are very glad,” 
she continued, as she saw the unmistakable joy in his 
face. “ Maybe you will be able to make him undeistand 
what it was you wished to have done, but if you cannot 
and I ever find it out, depend upon it I will do it, sure. 
You can trust me.” 

She looked like one to be trusted, the brave, unselfish 
little girl, on whom the dying eyes were fixed, so that 
Rossie’s was the last face they ever saw before they 
closed forever on the things of this world, and entered 
upon the realities of the next. Everard was not there, 
for the train was behind time, and when at last the 
Forrest House carriage came rapidly up the avenue, 
bringing the son who ten days ago had been cast out 
from his home and bidden mover to enter it again, there 
were knots of crape upon the bell-knobs, and in the 
chamber above a sheeted figure lay, scarcely more quiet 
and still than when bound in the relentless bands of 
paralysis, but with death upon the white face, which in 
its last sleep looked so calm and peaceful. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

THE JUDGE’S WILL. 

was Rosamond who met Everard as he came 
into the house, and taking his hands in hers 5 
held them in token of sympathy, but said no 
word by way of condolence, or of the dead 
father either. She merely asked him of his 
journey and the delay of the train, and if he was not 
cold and hungry, and saw that his supper was served 
him by a bright, cheerful fire, and made him in all re- 










THE JUDGE'S WILL. 


148 


sped,a as comfortable as she could, while the servants 
vied with each other in their attentions to him, for was 
he not now their master, the rightful heir of all the For¬ 
rest property. Whether Everard experienced any senso 
of freedom and heirship, or not, I cannot tell, or what he 
felt when at last he stood by his dead father, and looked 
upon the face which, when he saw it last, had been dis¬ 
torted with passion and hatred of himself. How placid 
and even sweet it was in its expression now,—so sweet 
that Everard stooped down, kissing the cold forehead, 
and whispered softly : “I am so sorry, father, that I 
ever made you angry with me then, he replaced the 
covering and went out from the silent room. In the 
hall he met Rossie, who, seeing the trace of weeping on 
his face, thought to comfort him by repeating the mes¬ 
sage left him by his father. 

“ Would you mind my telling you all about his sick¬ 
ness ; can you bear to hear it ?” she asked, and he replied : 

“ Yes, tell me about it,—from the very first.” 

So they sat down together, and in her quaint, straight¬ 
forward way Rossie told the story of the last ten days, 
softening as much as possible the judge’s anger when he 
found his son had taken him at his word and gone, and 
dwelling the most upon the change which came over 
him while lying so helpless and weak. She told of the 
method of communication she managed to establish, and 
which had been suggested to her by reading Monte Cristo, 
and then continued : 

“He seemed so glad when I told him we had sent for 
you, and so sorry that we could not find you, and his eyes 
kept following me all the time as if there was something 
he wanted to say and couldn’t, and at last I found out 
what it was. If he never saw you again, he wished me 
to tell you that he forgave you everything ; that was it, 
I know, and he was so happy and quiet after it, though 
he wanted you to come so much.” 

Here Rossie paused, and thought of that mysterious 
thing which had seemed to trouble him the most, and which 
she was pledged to do when she found out what it was. 

“I wonder if I ought to tell him that now,” she 
thought, and finally concluded that she would not until 
something definite "came to her knowledge of which she 
could speak. 


144 


THE JUDGE'S WILL. 


The next morning Beatrice came over, with a great 
pity in her heart for Everard, and a great fear as well, 
when she remembered the angry man who had asked 
her to witness his will. Had he carried out his purpose 
and left behind him a paper which would work mischief 
to his son, or had he thought better of it, and destroyed 
it, perhaps, or left it unwitnessed ? She could not 
guess. She could only hope for the best, so far as the 
will was concerned ; but there was a heavier trouble in 
store for the young man than loss of property,—the 
acknowledging his marriage and blunging home his wife, 
for he would do that now, of course. There was no 
other way, and Beatrice resolved at once to stand 
bravely by Mrs. J. E. Forrest when she should arrive. 

Then came the funeral,—a grand affair, with a score 
of carriages, a multitude of friends, and crowds of 
people, who came to go over the house and through the 
grounds more than for any respect they had for the man 
who lay in his costly coffin, unmindful of the curious 
ones who looked at him and speculated upon the nature 
of the trouble which had driven his only son from home. 
Everybody knew there had been trouble, and each one 
put his or her construction on it, and all exonerated 
Everard from more blame than naturally would attach 
to the acts of a young man like him, as opposed to the 
ideas of a man like his father. 

Beatrice went with Everard and Rossie to the grave, 
and then back to the house, which in their absence had 
been cleansed from the atmosphere of death. The win¬ 
dows and doors had been opened to admit the fresh, pure 
air blowing up from the river ; then they were closed 
wgain and wood fires kindled on the hearth, and the table 
arranged in the dining-room, and one of Aunt Axie’s 
best dinners was waiting for such of the friends as chose 
to stay. 

Between Beatrice and Lawyer Russell there had been 
a private talk concerning the will which so much troubled 
Bee, and the lawyer had inclined to the belief that there 
was none of recent date, or he should have known it. 
He would look, however, he said, as he had a key to the 
judge’s private desk in the office. He had looked, and 
to his surprise had found a will, which must have been 
made the very day before the judge’s sickness, and dur-, 


THE JUDGE'S WILL . 


14 $ 


nig his own absence from the office. This he communi 
cated to Beatrice, and with her remained at the Forrest 
House to dinner for the purpose of making the fact 
known to Everard as soon as possible. As for Everard, 
he had not thought of a will, or indeed of anything, ex¬ 
cept in a confused, general kind of way, that he was, of 
course, his father’s natural heir, and that now Josephine 
must come there as his wife, and from that he shrank 
with a feeling amounting to actual pain; and he was not 
a little surprised when, after dinner was over, and they 
had returned to the long parlor, Lawyer Russell, as the 
old and particular friend of the family, said to him, “ I 
found in looking over your father’s papers a will, and as 
it was inclosed in an envelope directed to me, I took 
charge of it, and have it with me now. Shall I read it 
aloud, or give it to you ?” 

“A will !” Everard said, and a deep flush spread it 
seif over his face as if he dimly felt the coming blow 
which was to strike him with such force. “Did father- 
leave a will ? I never supposed he made one. Read it 
aloud, of course. These are all my, friends,” and he 
glanced at the clergyman and his wife, and Beatrice and 
Rossie, the only people present. 

The two girls were sitting side by side on a low sofa, 
and opposite them was Everard, looking very pale and 
nervous as he bent forward a little to listen to the will. 
It was made the day before the judge’s illness, and was 
duly drawn up and witnessed by Parker and Merritt, the 
two students in the office, and after mentioning a few 
thousands which were to be given to different individuals 
and charities, the judge went on: “the remainder of 
my estate, both real and personal, I give, bequeath, and 
devise to the girl, Rosamond Hastings, and-” 

Law} er Russell got no further, for there was a low 
cry from Rossie as she sprang to her feet, and crossed 
swiftly to Everard’s side. He, too, had risen, and with 
clasped hands was gazing fixedly at the lawyer, like one 
listening to his death-warrant. 

“ What did he say, Mr. Everard, about me ? What 
does it mean?” Rossie asked, laying both hands on Ever- 
ard’s arm, and drawing his attention to herself. 

“ It means that my father disinherited me, and made 

? 



146 


THE JUDGE'S WILL. 


you bis heir,” Everard answered her, a little oitterly, 
while she continued : 

“ It is not so. It does not read that way. There is 
some mistake and before the lawyer was aware of her 
intention she snatched the paper from him, and ran heir 
eye with lightning rapidity over what was written on it, 
comprehending as she read that what she had heard was 
true. 

Everard was disinherited, and she was the heiress of 
all the Forrest estate. Her first impulse was t# tear the 
paper in pieces, but Everard caught her hands as she 
was in the act of rending it asunder, and said : 

“Rossie, you must not do that. The will will stand 
just as my father meant it should.” 

Rossie’s face was a study as she lifted it toward 
Everard, pale as death, with a firm, set look about the 
mouth, and an expression in her large black eyes such as 
the Cenci’s might have worn when upon the rack. 

“ Oh, Mr. Everard,” she said, “ you must always hate 
me, though I’ll never let it stand. I did not know it. I 
never dreamed of such a thing. I shall never touch it^ 
never. Don’t hate me, Mr. Everard. Oh, Beatrice, help 
me,—somebody help me. I believe I am going to die.” 

But she was only fainting, and Everard took her in 
his arms and carried her to an open window in the ad¬ 
joining room, and giving her to the care of Beatrice, 
waited to see the color come back to her face and motion 
to her eyelids ; then he returned to the parlor, where 
Lawyer Russell was examining the document which had 
done so much harm and made the memory of the dead 
man odious. 

“ Everard, this is a very strange affair ; a most inex¬ 
plicable thing,” the lawyer said. “ I cannot understand 
it, or believe he really meant it. I do not wish to pry 
into your affairs, but as an old friend of the family, may 
I ask if you know of any reason, however slight, why 
he should do this ?” 

“ Yes,” Everard answered promptly, “ there is a rea¬ 
son ; a good one, many would say ; and that I was 
rightly punished. The will is just ; I have no fault to 
find with it. I shall not try to dispute it. The will 
must stand.” 

He spoke proudly and decidedly, with the air of one 


THE JUDGE'S WILL. 


147 


*vhose mind was made up, and who did not wish to con¬ 
tinue the conversation, and who would not be made au 
object of pity or sympathy by any one. But when Law¬ 
yer Russell was gone, and Beatrice came to him as he sat 
alone by the dying fire^ and putting her hand on his 
bowed head, said to him : 

“ I am so sorry, and wish I could help you some way,” 
he broke down a little, and his voice shook as he replied : 

“Thank you, Bee. I know you do, and your friend¬ 
ship and sympathy are very dear to me now, for you 
know everything, and I can talk to you as to no one else 
Father must have been very angry, and his anger reaches 
up out of his grave and holds me with a savage grip, but 
I do not blame him much, and, Bee, don’t think there is 
no sweet with the bitter, for that is not so. It is true I 
like money as well as any one, and I do not say that I 
had not to some degree anticipated what it w« lid bring 
me, but, Bee, with that feeling was another, a shrinking 
from what would be my plain duty, if I were master 
here. You know what I mean.” 

“You would bring your wife home,” Bee answered, 
and he continued : 

“ Yes, that would have to be done, and,—Heaven 
forgive me if I am wrong,—but I almost believe I would 
rather be poor and work for her,—she living in Ilolbur- 
ton,—than be rich and live with her here. And then, if 
I must be supplanted, I am so glad it is by Rossie. She 
takes it hard, poor child ; how was she when you left 
her?” 

“ Over the faint, but crying bitterly, and she bade 
me tell you to come to her,” Beatrice replied, and Ever- 
ard went to Rossie’s room, where she was lying on the 
couch, her eyes swollen with weeping, and her face very 
pale. 

She was taking it hard,—her sudden accession to 
riches, and when she saw Everard she began sobbing 
afresh as if her heart would break. 

« Please go away,” she said to Beatrice, “ I want to 
see him alone.” 

Beatrice complied, and the moment she was gone 
Rosamond began to tell Everard how impossible it.was 
that she should ever touch the money left her in a fit of 

anger. 


148 


THE JUDGE'8 WILL. 


“It is not mine,” she said. “1 have no shadow of 
right to it, and you must take it just the same as if that 
will had n«ver been. Say you will, or I believe I shall 
go mad.” 

But Everard was as immovable as a rock, and an* 
cwered her: 

“ Do you for a moment think my pride, if nothing 
else, would allow me to touch what was willed away 
from me r Never, Hossie. I would rather starve; but 
I shall not do that. I am young and strong, and the 
world is before me, and I am willing to work at what¬ 
ever 1 find to do, and shall do so, too, and make far more 
of a man,. I dare say, than if I had all this money. I am 
naturally indolent and extravagant, and very likely 
should fall into my old expensive habits, and I don’t 
want to do that. I am so glad you are the heiress; so 
glad to hav<> you mistress here in the old home. You 
will ma’ dear little lady of Forrest House.” 

II poke almost playfully, hoping thus to soothe and 
quiet ner, for she was violently agitated, and shook like 
a leaf; but nothing he said had any effect upon her. 
Only one thing could help her now. She felt that she 
had unwittingly been the means of wronging Everard, 
and she never could rest until the wrong was righted, 
and his own given back to him. 

“ I’ll never be the lady of Forrest House,” she said, 
fnergetically. “I shall give it back to you, whether you 
vill take it or not. It is not mine.” 

“ Yes, Rossie, it is yours. He knew what he was 
loing; he meant you to have it,” Everard said ; and 
starting suddenly, as the remembrance of something 
flashed upon her, Rossie shed back her hair from her 
spotted, tear-stained face, and exclaimed, with a ring of 
joy in her voice: 

“ He might have meant it at first, when he was very 
angry, but he repented of it and tried to make amends. 
I see it now I know what he meant,—the something 
which concerned you, and which I vras to do. I promised 
solemnly I would,—it will be a dreadful lie if I don’t ; 
but you will let me when you hear,—when you know how 
he took it back.” 

She was very much excited, and her eyes shone like 
stai'3 as she stood before Everard, who looked at hex 


THE JUDGE'S WILL 


M9 


curiously, with a thought that her mind might really he 
unsettled. 

“Sit down, Rossie, and compose yourself,” he said, 
trying to draw her back to the couoh ; but she would not 
sit down, and she went on rapidly : 

“ I told you how I managed to talk with your father, 
and to find out that he wanted to forgive you, but I did 
not tell you the rest. I thought, I’d wait till it came to 
me what I was to do, and it has come. I know now just 
what he meant. lie was not quiet after the forgiveness, 
as I thought he’d be, but his eyes followed me every¬ 
where, and said as plain as eyes could say, ‘ There is 
something more so I began to question him again, 
and found it was about you and another person. That 
person was myself, and I was to do sometning when J 
found out what it was. I said, ‘Is it something I am to 
do for Mr. Everard ?’ and his eyes went to the window 4 
then I asked, ‘Shall I some day know what it is?’ and 
he answered ‘Yes. 5 Then I said, ‘I’ll surely, surely do 
it,’ and the poor, helpless face laughed up at me, he was 
so pleased and happy. After that he was very quiet, 
So you know he meant me to give the money back, and 
you will not refuse me now ?” 

For a moment Everard could not speak. As Rossie 
talked, the great tears had gathered slowly and dropped 
upon his face. He could *see so vividly the scene which 
she described,—the dim, eager eyes of his dead father 
trving to communicate with the anxious, excited little 
girl, who had, perhaps, interpreted their meaning aright. 
There could be but bale doubt that his father, when his 
passion cooled down, was sorry for the rash act, and 
Everard was deeply moved by it, and for a little spaca 
of time felt uncertain how to act, but when he remem¬ 
bered who must share his fortune with him, and all hia 
father had said of her, he grew hard and decided again, 
and said to Rosamond : 

“ I am glad you told me this, Rossie. It makes it 
easier to bear, feeling that possibly father was sorry, and 
wished to make reparation, but that does not change th© 
facts, nor the will. He gave everything to you, and you 
cannot give it to me now, if you would. \ou are not 
of age, you see.” 

“ Do you mean,” Rosamond asked, “ that even if you 


150 


THE HE [HESS. 


would take the money, I cannot give it back till I an. 
twenty-one ?” 

“ ISTot lawfully, no,” Everard replied; and Rossie ex¬ 
claimed, almost angrily: 

“ I can ; I will. I know there is some way, and I'll 
find it out. I will not have it so, and I think you are 
mean to be so proud and stiff.” 

She was losing all patience with Everard for what 
she deemed his obduracy; her head was aching dread 
fully, and after this outburst she sank down again upon 
♦he couch, and burying her face in the pillow told him 
vO go away and not come again till he could do as she 
wished him to do. It was not often that Rosamond was 
thus moved, and Everard smiled in spite of himself at 
her wrath, but went out and left her alone as she desired. 


CHAPTER XX. 

THE HEIRESS. 

HE looked like anything but an heiress the 
next morning when she came down to break¬ 
fast, with her swollen face and red eyes, 
which had scarcely been for a moment closed 
in sleep. Everard was far brighter and 
fresher. He had accepted the situation, and was re 
solved to make the best of it, and though the memory 
of his father’s bitter anger rested heavily on his heart 
it was softened materially by what Rosamond had tolc 
him, and, contrary to his expectations, he had slept 
soundly and quietly, and though very pale and worn, 
seemed much like himself when he met Rossie in the 
breakfast-room. Xot a word was said on the subject 
uppermost in both their minds; he carved, sitting in his 
father’s old place, and she poured the coffee with a shak¬ 
ing hand, and Bee did most of the talking, and was so 
bright and merry that when at last she said good-by and 
went to her own home, Rossie’s face was not half so 
sorry-lookinsr, o r her heart so heavy and sad, though she 
was just as decided with regard to the money. 









TEE HEIRESb 


161 


She hit J not yet talked with Lawyer Russell, in whom 
she had the utmost confidence. Pie surely would know 
some way out of the trouble,—some way by which she 
could give Everard his own ; and she sent for him to 
come to the house, as she would not for the world appear 
in the streets with this disgrace upon her,—for Rossie felt 
it a disgrace,—of having supplanted Everard ; and she 
told the lawyer so when he came, and assuring him of 
her unalterable determination never to touch a dollar of 
the Forrest money, asked if there was not some way by 
which she could rid herself of the burden and give it 
back to Everard. She told him what had occurred be¬ 
tween herself and the judge, and asked if he did not 
think it had reference to the will. The lawyer was cer¬ 
tain it had, and asked if Everard knew this fact. Yes, 
Rossie had told him, and though he seemed glad in one 
way to know his father had any regrets for the rash act, 
he still adhered to his resolve to abide by the will. 

“ JBut he cannot ; he shall not; he must take the 
money. I give it to him ; it is not mine, and I will not 
have it,” she said, impetuously, demanding that be 
should fix it some way. 

Mr. Russell had seen Everard for a few moments 
that morning, and heard from him of his firm resolve 
not to enter into any arrangement whereby he could be 
benefited by bis father’s fortune. 

“Father cast me off,” he said, “and no arguments 
can shake my purpose. Rossie is the heiress, and she 
must take what is thrust upon her ; but make it as easy 
as you can for the child ; let her choose her own guard¬ 
ian, and I trust she will choose you. I know you will b 5 
trustworthy.” 

All this the lawyer repeated to Rossie, and then, as 
she still persisted in giving back, as she expressed it, he 
explained to her how impossible it was for her to do it 
until she reached her majority, even if Everard would 
take it. 

“ You are a minor yet,” he said ; “ are what we call 
an infant. You must have a guardian, and I propose 
that you take Everard, and he may also be appointed ad¬ 
ministrator of the estate ; he will then be entitled to a 
certain amount of money as his legitimate fees, and sc 
get some of it.” 


Exactly what the office of guardian and administra 
tor was, Rosamond did not know, but she grasped one 
idea, and said : 

“You mean that whoever is administrator will be 
paid, and if Mr. Everard is that he wall get some money 
which belongs to him already ; that is it, is it not ? 
Now, I want him. to have it all; if I cannot give it to 
him till I am twenty-one, I shall do it then, so sure as I 
live to see that day, and, meanwhile, you must contrive 
some way for him to use it just the same. You can, I 
know. I am quite resolved.” 

She had risen as she talked and stood before him, 
her cheeks flushed, her eyes unnaturally bright, and her 
head thrown back, so that she seemed taller than she 
really was. Lawyer Russell had always liked Rossie 
very much, and since that little business matter touching 
the receipt, he had felt increased respect and admira¬ 
tion for her, for he was certain she had helped Everard 
out of some one of the many scrapes he used in those 
days to be in. Looking at her now he thought what a 
fine-looking girl she was growing to be, and started sud¬ 
denly as he saw a way our of the difficulty, but such a 
way that he hesitated a moment before suggesting it. 
Taking off his glasses, and wiping them with his hand¬ 
kerchief, he coughed two or three times and then said : 

‘ How old are you, Rossie ?” 

“Fifteen last June,” was her reply, and he con¬ 
tinued : 

“Then you are almost fifteen and a half, and pretty 
well grown. Yes, it might do ; there have been queerer 
things than that.” 

“ Queerer things than what ?” Rossie asked, and he 
replied : 

“ Than what I am going to suggest. There is a way 
by which Everard can use that money if he will.” 

“ What is it ? Tell me,” she exclaimed, her £ace all 
aglow with excitement 

“He could marry you, and then what was youra 
might be his.” 

The lawyer had thrown the bombshell and waited for 
the explosion, but there was none. Rossie's face was 
just, as bright and eager, and showed not the slightest 

consciousness or shrinking back from a proposition which 


THE HEIRESS . 


isa 

wou .1 have covered some girls with blushes and con¬ 
tusion. But Rossie was a simple-hearted girl, who 
never having associated much with companions of bet 
own age, had never had her mind filled with lovers and 
matrimony, and when the lawyer proposed her marrying 
Everard she looked upon it purely as a business transac¬ 
tion,-—a means of giving him his own ; love had nothing 
to do with it, nor did it for a moment occur to her that 
there would be anything out of the way in such an act. 
She should not live with him, of course ; that would be 
impossible. She should simply marry him, and then 
leave him to the enjoyment of her fortune, and her first 
question to the lawyer was : 

Do you think he would have me ?” 

The old man took his glasses off again and looked at 
her, wondering much what stuff she was made of. 
Whatever it was he was sure she was as modest, and pure, 
and innocent as a new-born child, and he answered her : 

“ I’ve no doubt of it. I would if I were in his place.” 

“ And if he does, he can live right along here as ii 
there had been no will ?” was her next question ; and the 
lawyer replied : 

‘•Yes, just as if there had been no will then, re 
membering he had an engagement with a client and 
that it was already past the hour, he arose to go, and 
Rosamond was left alone. 

It was not her nature to put off anything she had to 
do, and feeling that she should never rest until some¬ 
thing definite was settled, she inquired at once where 
Everard was, and finding that he was in his father’s 
room, started thither immediately. He was sitting in 
his father’s chair by the table, arranging and sorting 
some papers and letters, but he arose when she came in 
and asked what he could do for her. 

“ 1 have been talking with Lawyer Russell,” she saui, 
“ trying to fix it some way, and he says I cannot give it 
to you till I am twenty-one ; then I can do as I please, 
but it is so long to wait,—five years and a half. I am most 
fifteen and a-half now. (This in parenthesis, as if to con¬ 
vince him of her mature age, preparatory to what was to 
follow.) I want you to have the money so much, for it ia 
yours, no matter what the law may say. I do not like the 
law, and there is but one way out of fit,—the trouble, I 

7 * 


THE HEIRESS. 


Tol 


mean. Lawyer Russell says if you marry me, you can use 
the money just the same. Will you. Mr. Everard? I an 
fifteen and a-half.” 

This she reiterated to strengthen her cause, looking 
him straight in the face all the time, without the slight¬ 
est change of color or sign of self-consciousness. 

Had she proposed in serious earnestness to murder 
him Everard could not have been more startled, or stared 
at her more fixedly than he did, as if to see what manner 
of girl this was, asking him to marry her as coolly and 
in as matter-of-fact a way as she would have asked the 
most ordinary favor. Was she crazy ? Ilad the trouble 
about the will actually affected her brain ! He thought 
so, and said to her very gently, as he would have spoken 
to a child or a lunatic : 

“ You are talking wildly, Rossie. You do not under¬ 
stand what you are saying. You are tired and excited. 
You must rest, and never on any account let any one 
know what you have said to me.” 

‘‘I do know what I am saying, and I am neither tired 
nor excited,” Rossie answered. “Lawyer Russell said 
that was the only way you could use the money before I 
was twenty-one.” 

“And did he send you here to say that to me?” 
Everard asked, and she replied : 

“No, he only suggested it as a means, because I 
would have him think of something. I came myself.” 

He saw she was in earnest; saw, too, that she did not 
at all comprehend what she was doing, or the position in 
which she was placing herself if it should be known. In 
her utter simplicity and lack of worldly wisdom, she 
might talk of this thing to others and put herself in a 
wrong light before the world, and however painful the 
task ? he must enlighten her. 

“ Rossie,” he began, “ you do not at all know what 
you have done, or how the act might be construed, by 
women, especially, if they knew it. Girls do not usually 
ask men to marry them ; they wait to be asked.” 

Slowly, as the shadow of some gigantic mountain 
creeps across the valley, there was dawning on Rossie’s 
raind a perception of the construction which might be 
put upon her words, and the blood-red flame suffused bei 
face and neck, and spread to her finger-tips, as she said, 


THE HEIRESS . 


isa 


vehemently : “ You mistake me, Mr. Everard, I did not 
mean it as you might marry Miss Beatrice, or somebody 
you loved. I did not mean anything except a way out 
l was not going to live here at all; only marry you so 
you could have the money, and then I go away and do 
for myself. That’s what I meant. You know I do not 
love you in a marrying way, and that I’m not the brazen¬ 
faced thing to tell you so if I did. If I thought you 
could believe that of me, I should drop dead at your 
feet, and I almost wish that I could now, for very shame 
of what I have done.” 

As she talked there had come to Rossie more and 
more the great impropriety and seeming immodesty of 
what, in all innocence of purpose she had done, and the 
knowledge almost crushed her to the earth, making her 
cover her burning face with her hands, and transforming 
her at once from a child into a woman, with all a sens! 
tive woman’s power to feel and suffer. She did not wait 
for him to speak, but went on rapidly : 

“You cannot despise me more than I despise myself 
for I see it now just as you do, and I must have been an 
idiot, or crazy. You will loathe me always, of course, 
and I cannot blame you ; but remember, I did not mean 
it for love, or think to stay with you. I do not love you 
that way; such a thing would be impossible, and I would 
not marry you now for a thousand times the money.” 

She had used her last and heaviest weapon, and with¬ 
out a glance at him turned to go from the room, but he 
would not suffer her to leave him thus. Over him, too, 
as she talked, a curious change had come, for he saw the 
transformation taking place, and knew he was losing the 
sweet, old-fashioned, guileless child, who had been so 
dear to him. She was leaving him, forever, and in her 
place there stood a full-fledged woman, rife with a 
woman’s instincts, quivering with passion, and burning 
with resentment and anger, that he had not at once un¬ 
derstood her meaning just as she understood it. How 
her words,—“I do not love you that way ; such a thing 
is impossible ; and I would not marry you now for a 
thousand times the money,” rang through his eais, and 
burned themselves into his memory to be recalled after¬ 
ward, with such bitter pain as he had never known. He 
did not quite like this impetuous assertion of the iropo&* 


156 


THE HEIRESS. 


sibility of loving him. It grated upon him with a sens© 
of something lost. He must stand well with Rossie, 
though her love that way , as she expressed it, was some¬ 
thing he had never dreamed of as possible. 

“ Rossie,” he said, putting out his arm to detain her, 
“you must not go from me feeling as you do now. Yosx 
have done nothing for which you need to blush, because 
you had no bad intent, and the motive is what exalts or 
condemns the act. Sit here by me. I wish to talk with 
you.” 

He made her sit down beside him upon the sofa, and 
tried to take her hand, but she drew it swiftly away, with 
a quick, imperative gesture. He would never hold her 
hand again, just as he had held the little brown, sun¬ 
burned hands so many times. She was a woman now, 
with all her woman’s armor bristling about her, and 
as such he must treat with her. It was a novel situa¬ 
tion in which he found himself, trying to choose words 
with which to address little Rossie Hastings, and foi 
a moment he hesitated how to begin. Of her strange 
offer to himself he did not mean to speak, for there 
had been enough said on that subject. It is true he 
had neither accepted nor refused, but that was not 
necessary, for she had withdrawn her proposition with 
such fiery energy as would have made an allusion to 
it impossible, if he had been free and not averse to 
the plan. He was not free, and as for the plan, it 
struck him as both laughable and ridiculous, but he 
would not for the world wound the sensitive girl beside 
him more than she had wounded herself, and so when at 
last he began to talk with her it was simply to go again 
over the whole ground, and show her how impossible it 
was for him to take the money or for her to give it to 
him. He appreciated her kind intentions ; they were 
just like her, and he held her as the dearest sister a 
brother ever had ; but she must keep what was her own, 
and he should make his fortune as many a man had done 
before him, and probably rise higher eventually than if 
he had money to help him rise. He had not yet quite 
decided what he should do, but that he should leave 
Rothsay was probable. He should, however, stay long 
enough to see that her affairs were in a way to be 
smoothly managed, and to see her fairly installed in the 


THE HEIRESS. 


151 


Forrest House with some respectable elderly lady as her 
companion and protector. Lawyer Russell would, of 
course, be her guardian, and the administrator of the es¬ 
tate She could not be in better hands ; and liowevei 
far away he might be, he should never lose his interest 
in her or cease to be her friend. 

“Meanwhile,” he said, with an effort to smile, “ 1 
ghall be glad if you will allow me to make your house 
my home until my arrangements are completed. I am 
not so proud that I will not accept that hospitality at 
your hands.” 

I do not think that Rosamond quite comprehended 
his last words. She only knew that he would not hurry 
away from the Forrest House, and she looked up eagerly, 
and said: 

“ I am so glad, and I hope you will not hate me, or 
ever believe I meant the foolish thing I said,—in that 
way.” 

“No, Rossie,” he answered her, “ I am far from hat¬ 
ing you, and how can I think you meant that way when 
you have repeatedly declared that you would not marry 
me now for a thousand times the money ?” 

“ No, now nor ever !” Rosamond exclaimed, energet¬ 
ically; and he replied: 

“ Yes, I know; men generally understand when a girl 
tells them she has no love or liking for them.” 

There was something peculiar in his voice, as if what 
she said hurt him a little, and Rossie detected it, and in 
her eagerness to set him right involuntarily laid her 
hand on his arm, and flashing upon him her brilliant, 
beautiful eyes, in which the tears were shining, said to him: 

“ Oh, Mr. Everard, you must not mistake what I mean. 
I do like you, and shall for ever and ever ; but not in a 
marrying way, and I am so sorry I have come between 
you and your inheritance. You have made me see that 
I cannot now help myself, but when I am twenty-one, if 1 
live so long, so help me Heaven, I’ll give you back every 
dollar. You will remember that, and knowing it may help 
you to bear the years of poverty which must intervene.” 

Again the long, silken lashes were lifted, and the 
dark, bright eyes looked into his with a look which sent 
a strange, sweet thrill through every nerve of the young 
man’s body. Rosamond had come up before him in an 


158 


THE HEIRESS 


entirely new character, and he was vaguely conscious ol 
a different interest in her now from what he had felt be¬ 
fore. It was not love; it was not a desire of possession^ 
He did not know what it was ; he only knew that his 
future life suddenly looked drearier than ever to him if 
it must be lived away from her and her influence. She 
had risen to her feet as she was speaking, and he rose 
also, and went with her to the door, and let her out, and 
watched her as she disappeared down the stairs, and then 
went back to his task of sorting papers, witu the germ 
of a new feeling stirring ever so lightly in his h eart,—a 
sense of something which might have made ife very 
sweet, and a sense as well of bitter loss. 

Full of shame and mortification at what she had done, 
Rossie resolved to go at once to Elm Park and confess 
the whole to Beatrice, whom she found at home. She 
was thinking of the Forrest House and the confusion 
caused by the foolish will of an angry old man, when 
Rossie was announced, and, sitting down at her feet, 
plunged into the very midst of her trouble by saying : 

“Oh, Myss Beatrice, I have come to tell you some¬ 
thing which makes me wish I was dead. What do you 
suppose X have done ?” 

“ I a ji sure I cannot guess,” Beatrice replied, and 
Rossie continued, “ I asked Mr. Everard to marry me,—- 
actually to marry me !” 

“ Wha-at!” and Beatrice was more astonished than 
she had ever been in her life. “ Asked Everard Forrest 
to marry you ! Are you crazy, or a-” 

She did not finish the sentence, for Rossie did it for 
her, and said, 

“Yes, both crazy and a fool, I verily believe !” 

“ But how did it happen ? What put such an idea 
into your head ?” 

Briefly and rapidly Rosamond repeated what had 
passed between herself and Lawyer Russell, who had 
asked how old she was, and on learning her age had sug 
gested her marrying the young man auu thus giving 
him back the inheritance. 

“And you went and did it, you littf s goose,” Beatrice 
said, laughing until the tears ran down her cheeks; but 
when she saw how distressed Rosamond was she con¬ 
trolled her merriment, and listened while Rossie wentou 


THE HEIRESS. 


15® 


“ Yes, I was a simpleton not to know any better, but 
I never meant him to marry me as he would marry you 
or some one he loved ; that had nothing to do with it at 
all. And I was going right away from Forrest House to 
take care of myself. I knew I could find something to 
do, as nurse, or waitress, or ladies’ maid, if nothing 
more ; and I meant to go just as soon as the ceremony 
was over and leave him all the money, and never, never 
come back to be in the way.” 

“And you told him this, and what did he say ?” Bea¬ 
trice asked, her mirth all swept away before the great 
unselfishness of this simple-hearted girl, w'ho went on : 

“ I did not tell him all that at first. I asked him to 
marry me, just as I would have asked him to give me a 
glass of water, and with as little thought of shame, but 
the shame came afterward when I saw what I had done. 
I Gan’t explain how it came,—the new sense of things,— 
I think he looked it into me, and I felt in an instant 
as if i had been blind and was suddenly restored to 
sight. It was as if I had been walking unclothed in my 
sleep, fearlessly, shamelessly, because asleep, and had 
suddenly been roused to consciousness and saw a crowd 
of people staring and jeering at me. Oh, it was so 
awful.! and I felt like tearing my hair and shrieking 
aloud, and I said so many things to make him believe T 
did not m«an it for love or to live with him.” 

' And what did he say to the offer ? Did he accept 
or * efuse ?” Beatrice asked, and Rosamond replied : 

“ I do not think he did either. I was so ashamed 
wnen it came to me, and talked so fast to make him 
know that I would not marry him for a thousand times 
the money, and did not love him, and never could.” 

“ I’ll venture to say he was not especially delighted 
with such assertions ; men are not generally,” Beatrice 
said, laughingly, but Rosamond did not comprehend her 
meaning, or if she did, she did not pay any heed to it, 
but went rapidly on with her story, growing more and 
more excited as she talked, and finishing with a passion¬ 
ate burst of tears, which awakened all Bee’s sympathy, 
and made her try to comfort the sobbing girl, who 
seemed so bowed down with shame and remorse. 

Her head was aching dreadfully, and there began to 
steal over her such a faint, sick feeling, that she offered 


ISO 


A MIDNIGHT RIDE. 


eo remonstrance when Bee proposed that she spend tht 
night at Elm Park, and sent word to that effect to the 
Forrest House. 

The message brought Everard at once, anxious about 
Rosamond, whom he wished to see. But she declined j 
her head was aching too hard to see any one, she said, 
especially Everard, who must despise her always. Everard 
had certainly lost the child Rossie ; and the world had 
never seemed so dreary to him as that night in Bee r s 
boudoir, when he fairly and squarely faced the future 
and decided what to do, or rather, Bee decided for him ; 
and with a feeling of death in his heart he concurred in 
her opinion, and said he would go at once to Josephine, 
and telling her of his father’s death and will, ask her to 
help him build up a home where they might be happy. 
He was not to show her how he shrank back and shiv¬ 
ered even while taking her for his wife. He was to put 
the most hopeful construction on everything, and see 
how much good there was in Josie. 

“ And I am sure she will not disappoint you,” Bea 
trice said, infusing some of her own bright hopefulness 
into Everard’s mind, so that he did not feel quite so dis¬ 
couraged when he said good-night to her, telling her that 
he should start on the next morning’s train for Ilolbur- 
ton, but asking her not to tell Rossie of Josephine until 
eihe heard from him. 


CHAPTER XXI. 

A MIDNIGHT RIDE. 

was after midnight when Everard reach®** 
Albany, the second day after he left Roth- 
say. There the train divided, the New York 
passengers going one way, and the Boston 
passengers another. Everard was among the 
latter, and as several people left the car where he was, 
he felicitated himself upon having an entire seat for the 
remainder of his journey, and had settled himself for a 
sleep, with his soft traveling hat drawn over his eyes, 









A MIDNIGHT RIDE. 


16i 


aod his valise under his head, when the door opened and 
a party of young people entered, talking and laughing, 
and discussing a concert which they had that evening 
attended. As there was plenty of room Everard did nci 
move, but lay listening to their talk and jokes until 
another party of two came hurrying in just as the train 
was moving. The gentleman was tail, fine-looking, and 
exceedingly attentive to the lady, a fair blonde, whom 
he lifted in his arms upon the platform, and set down 
ineide the door, saying as he did so : 

“ There, madam, I did get you here in time, though 
1 almost broke my neck to do it ; that last ice you took 
came near being our ruin.” 

“Ice, indeed ! Better say that last glass you took,” 
the lady retortcd, with a loud, boisterous laugh, which 
made Everard shiver from head to foot, for he recog¬ 
nized Josephine’s voice, and knew it was his wife who 
took the unoccupied seat in front of him, gasping and 
panting as if wholly out of breath. 

“ Almost dead,” she declared herself to be, where¬ 
upon her companion, who was Dr. Matthewson, fanned 
her furiously with his hat, laughing and jesting, and 
attracting the attention of everybody in the car. 

For an instant Everard half rose to his feet, with an 
impulse to make himself known, but something held him 
back, and resuming hie reclining attitude, with his hat 
over his eyes in such a manner that he could see without 
being himself seen, he prepared to watch the unsuspect¬ 
ing couple in front of him, and their flirtation, for it 
seemed to be that in sober earnest. 

Josey was all life and fun, and could scarcely keep 
still a moment, but turned, and twisted, and tossed her 
head, and coquetted with the doctor, who, with his arm 
on the seat behind her, and half encircling her, bent over 
her, and looked into her beaming face in the most lover¬ 
like manner. 

Just then the door at the other end of the car opened, 
and the conductor appeared with his lantern and demand 
for tickets. 

“I shall have to pay extra,” Matthewson said. 
“You ate so long that I did not have time to get my 

tickets.” 

‘ Nonsense,” Josey answered, in a voice she evidently 


162 


A MIDNIGHT RIDE. 


did not mean to have heard, but which nevertheless 
reached Everard’s ear, opened wide to receive it, “ Non¬ 
sense ! This one,” nodding towards the conductor, “ never 
charges me anything ; we have lots of fun together. 
I’ll pass you ; put up your money and see how I’ll man¬ 
age it.” 

And when the conductor reached their seat and 
stopped before it and threw the light of his lantern in 
Josey’s face, he bowed very blandly, but glanced suspi¬ 
ciously at her companion, who was making a feint of 
getting out his purse. 

“My brother,” Josey said, with a mischievous twinkle 
m her blue eyes; and with an expressive “all right,” 
the conductor passed on and took the ticket held up to 
him by the man whose face he could not see, and at 
whom Josephine now for the first time glanced. 

But she saw nothing familiar in the outstretched 
form, and never dreamed who it was lying there so near 
to her and watching all she did. So many had left at 
Albany and so few taken their places that not more than 
half the seats were occupied, and those in the immediate 
vicinity of Josey and the doctor -tere quite vacant, so 
the young lady felt perfectly free to act out her real 
nature without restraint; and she did act it to the full, 
laughing, and flirting, and jesting, and jumping just as 
Everard had seen her do many a time, and thought it 
charming and delightful. Now it was simply revolting 
and immodest, and he glared at her from under his hat, 
with no feeling of jealousy in his heart, but disgusted 
and sorry beyond all power of description that she was 
his wife. Rossie had stood boldly up before him and 
asked him to marry her, but in her innocent face there 
was no look like this on Josey’s,—this look of reckless¬ 
ness and passion which showed so plainly even in the 
dimness of the car. At last something which the doctor 
said, and which Everard could not understand, elicited 
from her the exclamation : 

“ Aren’t you ashamed of yourself, and I a married 
woman ?” 

“The more’s the pity,” the doctor replied, with an 
expression on his face which, had Everard cared for or 
even respected the woman before him, would have 
prompted him to knock the rascal down. “ The more’s 


A MIDNIGHT RIDE. 


16S 


the pity,—for me, at least. I’ve called myself a fool a 
thousand times ror having cut off my nose to spite my 
face.” 

“ What do you mean ?” Josey asked, and he replied : 

“ Oh, nothing; only, can’t you get a divorce ? 1 
don’t believe he cares two cents for you.” 

“ I know he don’t,” and Josey shrugged her shoulders 
significantlv ; “ but so long as he keeps me in money I 
can stand it.” 

“ And does he do that pretty well nowadays ?” 

"'Xes, so-so; he is awfully afraid of his father, 
though, and I do not blame him. Such an old curmud¬ 
geon. I saw him last summer.” 

“You did? Where?” 

“ Why, at Amherst; at Commencement. I went to 
the president's reception, and made Everard introduce 
me, and tried my best to captivate the old muff, hut it 
was of no use , he took a dreadful dislike to me, and 
expressed himself freely to his son, who reported to 
me-” 

“ The mean co ward to do that,” the doctor exclaimed, 
and Josephine replied, “No, not mean at all. I made 
him tell me just what his father said I gave him no 
peace till he did, for I wanted the truth, so as to know 
how far to press my claim to recognition ; and I made up 
my mind that my best plan was to keep quiet a while, 
and let matters adjust themselves. Maybe the old man 
will die ; he looked apoplectic, as if he might go off in 
some of his fits of temper, and then won’t I make the 
money fly, for no power on earth shall keep me from the 
Forrest House then.” 

“ And you’ll ride over everybody, I dare say,” the 
doctor suggested, and she answered him, “You bet your 
head on that,” the slang dropping from her pretty lips 
as easily and naturally as if they were accustomed to it, 
as indeed they were. 

“ Is Everard greatly improved ?” was the next ques¬ 
tion, and Josephine replied, “Some would think so, per¬ 
haps, but I look upon him as a perfect milksop. I don’t 
believe I could fall in love with him now. Why, he is 
just as quiet and solemn as a graveyard ; never laughs, 
nor jokes, nor smokes, nor anything ; he is fine-locking, 


A MIDNIGHT BIDE. 


VH 

though, and I expect to be very proud of him when 1 am 
really his wife.” 

“ Which you never shall be, so help me Heaven F was 
Everard’s mental ejaculation, as he ground his teeth to¬ 
gether. 

He had made up his mind, and neither Bee ncr any 
one else could change it. That woman, c ,quetting so 
heartlessly with another man, and talking thus of him, 
should never even be asked to share his poverty, as he 
had intended doing. He would never voluntarily go into 
her presence again. He would return to Rothsay, tell 
his storv to Bee and see what he could do to help Rossie, 
and then go to work like a dog for money with which to 
keep the woman quiet. And when the day came, as 
come it must, that his secret was known, there should be 
a separation, for live with her a single hour he would 
not. This was his decision, and he only waited for th( 
train to stop in order to escape from her hateful presence 
But it was an express and went speeding on, while the 
two in front of him kept up their conversation, which 
turned at last on Rosamond, the doctor asking “ if she 
Btill lived at the Forrest House.” 

Josephine supposed so, though she had heard nothing 
of her lately, and Dr. Matthewson asked next what dis¬ 
position she intended to make of her when she was mis¬ 
tress of Forrest House. 

“ That depends,” Josephine replied, with her favorite 
shrug ; “ if there is nothing objectionable in her she can 
stay ; if she proves troublesome, she will go.” 

Oh, how Everard longed to shriek out that the girl 
who, if she proved troublesome, was to go from Forrest 
House, was the mistress there, with a right to dictate as 
to who would go or stay ; but that would be to betray 
himself ; so he kept quiet, while Josey, growing tired 
and sleepy, began to nod her golden head, which drooped 
lower and lower, until it rested on the shoulder of Dr. 
Matthewson, whose arm encircled the sleeping girl and 
adjusted the shawl about her, for it was growing cold 
and damp in the car. 

Just then they stopped at a way station, and, taking 
his valise, Everard left the train, which after a moment 
went whirling on, leaving him standing on the platform 
alone in the November darkness. 


A 2£11)2\1 <1111 HID Us. 


166 

There was a little hotel near by, where he parsed a 
few hours, until the train, bound for Albany, came along, 
and carried him swiftly back in the direction of home 
and Rossie, of whom he thought many times, seeing her 
as she looked standing before him with that sweet plead¬ 
ing expression on her face, and that musical ring in hei 
voice, as she asked to be his wife. How her eyes haunted 
him,—those brilliant black eyes, so full of truth, and 
womanly softness and delicacy. He could see them now 
as they had confronted him, fearlessly, innocently, at 
first, but changing in their expression as the sense of 
what she had done began to dawn upon her, bringing 
the blushes of shame to her tear stained face. 

“ Dear little Rossie !” he thought; “ if I were free, I 
believe I’d say ves,—not for the money, but for all she 
will be when she gets older.” And then there crept over 
him again that unde finable sense of something lost which 
he had felt when Rossie said to him, “I would not 
marry you now for a thousand times the money.” 

He was growing greatly interested in Rossie, and 
found himself very impatient during the last few hours 
of his journey. What had been done in his absence, he 
wondered, and was she more reconciled to the fortune 
which had been thrust upon her, and how would she re¬ 
ceive him, and how would she look ? She was not hand¬ 
some, he knew, and yet her face was very, very sweet, 
her eyes were beautiful, and so was the wavy, nut-brown 
hair, which she wore so becomingly in her neck,—-and at 
the thought of her hair there came a great lump in 
Everard’s throat as he remembered the sacrifice the 
unselfish girl had made for him two years before. 

“ In all the world there is no one like little Rossie,” 
he said to himself, and felt his heart beat faster with a 
thrill of anticipation as the train neared Rothsay and 
stopped at last at the station. 

Taking his valise, which was not heavy, he started 
at once for the Forrest House, which he reached just as 
it was growing dark, and the gas was lighted in the 
dining room. 



166 


THE NEW LIFE AT ROTHSAY. 


CHAPTER XXn. 

THE NEW LIFE AT ROTHSAY. 

first impulse was to ring like any strar gef 
at a door not his own, but thinking to him¬ 
self, “ I will not wound her unnecessarily,” 
he walked into the hall, and, depositing his 
satchel and hat upon the rack, went to the 
dining-room, the door of which was ajar, so that the first 
object which met his view as he entered was Rossie, 
standing under the chandelier, but so transformed from 
what she was when he last saw her, that he stood for an 
instant wondering what she had done ; for, instead of a 
child in short frock and white aprons, with loose flowing 
hair, he saw a young woman in a long black dress, with 
her hair twisted into a large, flat coil, and fastened with 
a comb. 

The morning after Everard’s departure Rossie had 
gone with Beatrice to order a black dress, which she in¬ 
sisted should be made long. “ I am through with short 
clothes now,” she said to Beatrice. “ I feel so old since 
I did that shameful thing, that for me to dress like a 
child would be as absurd as for you to do it. I am not 
a child. I am at least a hundred years old, and you 
know, it would never do for an heiress to be dressed lik<? 
a little girl. How could I discuss business with my law¬ 
yer in short clothes and bibs,” and she laughed hysteri¬ 
cally as she tried to force back her tears. 

She had become convinced that for a few years she 
must submit to be the nominal owner at least of the For¬ 
rest property, and she had made up her mind to certain 
things from which she could not be turned. One was 
long dresses, and she carried her point, and gave orders 
concerning some minor details with a quiet determina¬ 
tion which astonished Bee, who had hitherto found her 
the most pliable and yielding of girls. The dress had 
been sent home on the very afternoon of Everard’s 
arrival, and without a thought of his coming, Ros¬ 
sie shut herself in her room, and began the work of 
transformation, first by twisting up her flowing hair, 








TEE 21EW LIFE AT ROTHS AY. 




which added, she thought, at least two years to her ap¬ 
pearance, though she did not quite like the effect, it was 
so unlike herself. But the long dress was a success, and 
she liked the sound of the trailing skirt on the carpet, 
and looked at herself in the glass more than she had 
ever done before in her life at one time, and felt quite 
satisfied with the tout ensemble when she at last went 
down to the dining-room, where she was standing when 
Everard came in. 

She had been very lonely during his absence, and she 
was wondering where he had gone, and when he would 
return, when the door in the hall opened, and he was 
there before her. 

For a moment she stood regarding him just as he was 
studying her ; then, forgetting everything in her joy 
at seeing him again, she went forward to meet him, and 
giving him both her hands, while a beautiful flush dyed 
her cheeks, said to him: 

“I am so glad you have come back; it was so lone¬ 
some here, and I was just thinking about you.” 

Her greeting was so much more cordial than Ever¬ 
ard had expected that it made him very happy, and he 
kept her hands in his until she drew them away with a 
sudden wrench, and stepping back from him, put on the 
dignity she had for a moment dropped. But the action 
became her and her long dress, and Everard looked 
closely and admiringly at her, puzzled to know just what 
it was which had changed her so much. He guessed 
that she was thinking of that scene in his father’s room, 
but he meant to ignore it altogether, and, if possible, 
put her on her old familiar footing with himself ; so, 
looking at her from head to foot, he said: 

“ What is it, Rossie ? What have you done to your¬ 
self ? Pieced down your gown, or what, that you seem 
so much taller and grander every way,—quite like Bee, in 
fact ? Yes, you have got on a train, sure as guns, and 
your hair up in a comb ; that part I don’t like ; the 
other change is rather becoming, but I’d rather see you 
co and playfully pulling the comb from her head, he 
let the wavy hair fall in masses upon her neck and 
shoulders. “There, that’s better; it gives me little 
Rossie again, and I do not wish to lose my sister.” 

He was trying to reassure her, and she knew it, and 


168 THE NEW LINE AT NOTES AT. 


was very grateful to liim for the kindness, aui saiA 
l laughingly, that she put up her hair because she thought 
it suited the long dresses which she meant to wear now 
that she was a woman of business, but if he liked it in 
her neck it should be worn so ; and then she asked him 
of his journey, and if he was not tired and hungry. 

“ fired ? No ; but cold as a frog and hungry as a 
r>var. What have we for dinner?” An.d he turned to 
inspect the little round table laid for one. u Nothing 
but toast and tea. Why, that would starve a cat. Did 
you dine in the middle of the day ?” 

Rosamond colored painfully as she answered : 

“ I had lunch, as usual. I was not hungry. I am 
never hungry now, and just have tea at night.” 

“ Rossie,” and Everard laid both hands on her 
shoulders and looked her squarely in her eyes, “ Rossie,” 
are you practicing economy, so as not to use the money 
fou think belongs to me?” 

He divined her motive, for it was the fear of using 
the Forrest money needlessly which was beginning to 
rule her life, and had prompted her to omit the usual 
din ner, the most expensive meal of the day, and have, 
instead, plain bread and butter, or toast and tea ; and 
Everard read the truth in her tell-tale face, and said : 

“ That will never do, and will displease me very 
much ; I wish you to live as you ought, and if it is on 
my account you are trying the bread and water system, 
I am here now and hungry as a fish, so you can indulge 
for once and order on everything there is.” 

There was not much, but a slice of cold ham was 
found, and some cheese, and jam and pickles, and Axia 
made a delicious cup of coffee, and brought more bread 
and butter, and offered to bake him a hoe cake if he 
would wait, but he was too nearly starved to wait for 
hoe cakes, he said, and he took his father’s place at the 
table, and was conscious of a great degree of comfort in 
and satisfaction with his surroundings, especially with 
he sight of the young girl who sat opposite to him and 
soured his coffee, and once or twice laughed heartily at 
feorae of his funny remarks. He seemed in excellent 
spirits, and though much of it was forced for Rossie’s 
cake, ho really was happier than he h.vl been since his 
father’s death. His future, so far as Josephine was con- 


THE SEW LIFE AT 


m 


HO ms AT. 

ceroed, was settled. lie should never attempt to live 
with her now. 

All the evening he sat with Rossie, and piled the 
wood upon the fire until the flames leaped merrily up the 
chimney, and infused a genial warmth through the 
large room. And Rosamond enjoyed it thoroughly be¬ 
cause it was done for him. She would never have added 
a single superfluous chip for herself, lest it should dimin¬ 
ish what was one day to go back to him ; but for Ever- 
ard she would almost have burned the house itself and 
left she was doing her duty. 

The next morning he spent with Beatrice, to whom 
he told the story of the midnight ride from Albany. 

“After seeing and hearing what I did, I cannot ask 
her to live with me lest she should consent,” he said, and 
Beatrice could not say a word in Josephine’s defense, 
but asked what he proposed to do. Was he going away, 
or would he remain in Rothsay ? A few days ago Ev- 
erard would have answered promptly, “ No, anywhere 
but here, in the place so full of unpleasant memories 
but now matters had somehow changed. That coming 
home the previous night, that bright fire on the hearth, 
and more than all, the sweet young face on which the 
firelight shone, and the eyes which had looked so mod¬ 
estly at him had made him loth to leave Rothsay and go 
away from the shadowy firelight and the young girl with 
the new character and the long dress. He might have 
left the child Rossie in the hands of Beatrice and Law¬ 
yer Russell, knowing she would be well cared for, but 
to leave Miss Hastings was quite another thing, and 
when Bee questioned him of his intentions, he hesitated 
a moment and was glad when, in her usual impetuous, 
helpful way, she said : 

“ Let me advise you before you decide. I saw Law¬ 
yer Russell in your absence, and had a long talk with 
him, and he thinks the best thing you can do is to stay 
in the office where you are a»d accept the guardianship 
of Rossie and the administration of the estate. That 
will bring you money which you certainly can have no 
scruples in taking, as it will be honestly earned and must 
go to some one. You can still go on with your study of 
law and write your essays and reviews, and so have 
plenty of means to satisfy Josephine, if money will do 

8 


170 


THE NEW LIFE AT RGTHBAT. 


it. 1 do not suppose you will live at the Forrest Housq, 
that might not be jest ; but you will be in the vil¬ 
lage near by and can have a general oversight of Rossie 
herself as well as her affairs. What do you think of my 
plan?” , r . 

The idea of remaining in Rothsay and having an 
oversight of Rosamond was not distasteful to the young 
man, and when he left Beatrice he went directly to hia 
father’s office, where he found Lawyer Russell, who 
made the same suggestion with regard to the guardian¬ 
ship and administration of the estate which Beatrice 
had done. Of course it was necessary that Rosamond 
herself should be seen, and the two men went to the 
Forrest House to consult with her on the subject. 

They found her more than willing, and in due time 
Rverard was regularly installed as guardian to Rosamond 
and administrator of the estate. And then began a con 
diet with the girl, who manifested a decision of charac¬ 
ter and dignity of manner with which Everard found it 
difficult to cope. She insisted upon knowing exactly how 
much the Forrest property was estimated at, where the 
money was invested, and when interest on each invest¬ 
ment was due. This she wrote down in a book of her 
own, and then she made an estimate of the annual 
expenses of the household as it was at present conducted. 

‘'Don’t you think that a great deal?” she asked. 

“ Father did not find it too much, and he was as 
close about expenditures as one need to be,” Everard 
replied ; and Rosamond continued : 

“ Yes, but I propose to reduce everything.” 

“ What do you mean, Rossie ?” Everard asked, 
greatly puzzled to understand this girl, who seemed so 
self-possessed and assured in her long dress, to which 
he charged everything new or startling in her conduct. 

Rosamond hesitated a moment, and then replied : 

“ You have convinced me against my will that I am 
at present the lawful heir of your father’s property ; 3 
have tried hard not to accept that as a fact, but I am 
compelled to do so. You say that I am really and truly 
the mistress of Forrest House, and don’t mistresses of 
houses do as they like about the arrangement of mat¬ 
ters in the house?’ Everard said “Generally, yes,” and 


THE HEW LIFE AT ROTHS AY. 


171 


“ Well, then, this is what I mean to do. First, I 
shall keep a strict account of the income and a strict 
account of the outgo, so far as that outgo is for me per¬ 
sonally. You know I have two thousand dollars of my 
own, and I shall use that first, and by the time that is 
gone I hope to be able to take care of myself. I am 
going to have some nice, middle-aged lady in the house 
as companion and teacher, and shall study hard, so 
that in a year or two at most I shall be able to go out 
as governess or teacher in some school. My mind is 
quite made up. There are some things I cannot do, 
and there are some things I can, and this is one of 
them, I shall have the teacher and get an education, 
and meanwhile shall live as economically as pos¬ 
sible ; and I wish you to sell the horses and carriage, 
too ; I shall never use them, and horses cost so much to 
keep. I like to walk, and have good strong feet and 
inkles,—great big ones, you used to say,” and she tried to 
smile, but there was a tear on her long eyelashes as she 
referred to a past which had been so pleasant and free 
from care. “ A part of the land is a park,” she went on, 
“and does not need much attention except to pick up 
and prune, and cut the grass occasionally. Uncle Abel 
told me so. 1 have talked with him ever so much, and 
he says if I give him three dollars more a month he can 
do all there is to be done in the grounds, if he does not 
have the horses to look after, so I shall keep him, and 
his little grandson, Jim, to do errands and wait on the 
table and door, and Aunt Axie to work in the house, and 
send the rest away.” 

“Why, Rosamond,” Everard said, staring at her in 
amazement, “you don’t know what you are talking 
about ; Aunt Axie cannot do all the work.” 

“Nor will she,” Rossie said ; “lam going to shut up 
most of the house, and only use two rooms up stairs, one 
for myself and one for the teacher, and the dining-room 
down stairs, and little sitting-room off for any calls I 
may have. I can take care of my own room and the 
teacher’s, too, if she likes.” 

She had settled everything, and it only remained for 
Everard, as her guardian, to acquiesce in her wishes when 
he found that nothing which he could say had power to 
change her mind. She had developed great decision of 


TEE EE TV LIFE AT ROTHS AY. 


172 


character and so clear a head for business in all its d& 
tails, that Everard told her, laughingly, that it would be 
impossible for him to cheat her in so much as a penny 
without being detected. He was intensely interested in 
this queer girl, as he styled her to himself, and so far as 
was consistent with her good, did everything she asked, 
proving himself the most indulgent of guardians and 
faithful of administrators. Together with Beatrice he 
inquired for and found, in Cincinnati, a Mrs. Markham, 
a lady, and the widow of an English curate, who seemed 
exactly fitted for the situation at Forrest House as Ros- 
sie’s teacher and companion. All Rossie’s wishes with 
regard to reducing the expenditures of the household 
were carried out, with one exception. Everard insisted 
that she should keep one of the horses, which she could 
drive, and the light covered carriage which had been 
Mrs. Forrest’s. To this Rossie consented, but sent away 
three of the negroes, and shut up all the rooms not abso¬ 
lutely essential to her own and Mrs. Markham’s comfort. 
In this way she would save both fuel and lights, and the 
wear of furniture, she said, and to save for Everard had 
become a sort of mania with her. And when he saw he 
could not move her, Everard humored her whims and 
suffered her in most things to have her way. He 
had a cheap, quiet boarding-house in town, where he was 
made very comfortable by his landlady, who felt a little 
proud of having Judge Forrest’s son in her family, even 
f he were disowned and poor. Blood was better than 
cnoney, and lasted longer, she said, and as Everard had 
she bluest of blood, she made much of him, and petted 
him as he had never been petted in his life. And so, 
under very favorable auspices, began the new life of the 
two persons with whom this story has most to do. 

So far as Rossie was concerned it bade fair to be very 
successful. Mrs. Markham was both mother and friend 
to the young girl, in whom she was greatly interested. 
A thorough scholar herself, she had a marvelous power 
of imparting her information to others, and Rossie gave 
herself to study now with an eagerness and avidity which 
astonished her teacher, and made her sometimes try to 
hold her back, lest her health should fail from too close 
application. But Rossie seemed to grow stronger, and 


THE NEW LIFE AT ROTHS AY. 


172 


fresher, and rounder every day, notwithstanding that all 
her old habits of life were changed. 

Every day Beatrice came to the Forrest House, 
evincing almost as much interest in Rosamond’s educa¬ 
tion as Mrs. Markham herself, and giving her a great 
deal of instruction with regard to her French accent and 
music. Every Sunday Everard dined with her, and 
called upon her week days when business required that 
he should do so ; and he looked forward to these visits 
with the eagerness of a schoolboy going home. In some 
respects Everard was very happy, or, at least, content, 
during the first months of the new life. He was honor¬ 
ably earning a very fair livelihood, and at the same time 
advancing with his profession. No young man in town 
was more popular than himself, for the people attached 
ao blame to him for his father’s singular will, which 
they thought unjustifiable. There was, of course, alwayt 
present with him a dread of the day which must come 
when his secret would be known,—but Holburton was an 
Dut-of-the-way place, where his friends never visited, and 
;t might be months or even years before Josephine heard 
of his father’s death, and until that time he meant to be 
as happy as he could. Josephine did not trouble him 
often with letters which he felt obliged to answer. He 
took care to supply her frequently with money, which he 
sent in the form of drafts, without any other message, and 
she seemed satisfied. He had sold his horse, his stock 
was yielding him something regularly now, and with the 
percentage due him for his services as administrator, he 
was doing very well, and would have been quite content 
but for that undefinable sense of loss ever present with 
him. He had lost the child Rossie, and he wanted her 
back again, with the short gingham dress and white apron, 
and cape bonnet, and big boots, and little tanned hands; 
wanted the girl whom he had teased, and petted, and 
domineered over at will ; who used to romp the livelong 
day with the dogs and cats, and teach even the colts and 
calves to run and race with her ; who used to chew gum, 
and burst the buttons off her dress, and eat green apples 
and plums, and cry with the stomach-ache. All these 
incidents of the past as connected with Rossie came backs 
to him so vividly, that he often said to himself „ 

“ What has become of the child Roseie ?” 


174 


THE NEW LIFE AT ROTHS AT. 


She had been such a rest, such a comfort to him, and 
in one sense she was a comfort now, at least she was a 
study, an excitement and a puzzle to him, and he always 
found himself looking forward to the visits which he 
made her with an immense amount of interest. Every 
Sunday he dined with her, and walked with her to 
church in the evening, and sat in his father’s pew, and 
walked back with her and Mrs. Markham to the house 
after service was over, and said good-night at the door, 
and wondered vaguely if women like Mrs. Markham 
always went to church, if they never had a neadache, or 
a cold, and were compelled to stay at home. Occasion¬ 
ally, too, he went to the Forrest House on business, ask 
.ng only for Rosamond; but Mrs. Markham always 
appeared first, coming in as if by accident, and seating 
herself, with the shawl she was knitting, far off by the 
window, just where she could see what was done at the 
other end of the room. After a little Rosamond would 
appear, in her long black gown, which trailed over the 
carpet as she walked, and exasperated Everard with the 
sound of its trailing, for to that he charged the metamor¬ 
phosis in Rossie. It was the cause of everything, and 
had changed her into the quiet, dignified Miss Hastings, 
to whom it was impossible to speak as he used to speak 
to Rossie. 

One day as he was looking from his office window he 
saw Mrs. Markham going by for the long walk she was 
accustomed to take daily. He had seen her pass that 
way frequently with Rosamond at her side, but Rossie 
was not with her now; and though Everard had been at 
the Forrest House the night before, he suddenly remem¬ 
bered a little matter of business which made it very 
necessary for him to go again, and was soon walking 
rapidly up the long avenue to his old home. Aunt Axie 
let him in, and went for Rossie, who came to him at 
once,—evincing some surprise at seeing him again so 
soon, and asking, rather abruptly, if there was more 
business. 

“ Yes,” and he blushed guiltily, and felt half vexed 
with her for standing up so straight and dignified, with 
her hands holding to the back of a chair, while he ex¬ 
plained that the Ludlow mortgage would be due in a few 
days, and asked if she would like to have it renewed, ae 


THE NEW LIFE AT R0TH8AY. 


175 


it could be, or Have the money paid and invested some¬ 
where else at a higher rate ? He had forgotten to men¬ 
tion it the previous night, he said, and as she had 
expressed a wish |to know just how the moneys were 
: nvested, he thought best to come again and consult her. 

Rossie did not care in the least; she would leave it 
entirely to him, she said, and then waited, apparently fc>T 
him to go. But Everard was in no haste, and passing 
her a chair he said: 

“Sit down, Rossie. I am not going just yet. Now 
that I have you to myself for a few moments, I wish to 
ask how long this state of things is to go on ?” 

She did not know at all what he meant, and looked 
at him wonderingly as she took the proffered chair and 
said, “ What state of things ? What do you mean ?” 

“ I mean the high and mighty air you have put on 
toward me. Why, you are so cold and dignified that 
one can’t touch you with a ten-foot pole, and this ought 
not to be. I have a right to expect something different 
from you, Rossie. I dare say I can guess in part what 
is the matter. You are always thinking of that day you 
came to me in father’s room and said what you did. But 
for Heaven’s sake, forget it. I have never thought of it 
as a thing of which you need feel ashamed. You had 
tried every way to give me the money, and when that 
idea was suggested you seized upon it without a thought 
of harm, and generously offered to marry me and then 
run away, and so reinstate me in my rights.” 

Rossie’s face was scarlet, but she did not speak, and 
he continued: 

“ It was a noble, unselfish act, and just like you, and 
I don’t think a whit the less of you for it. I know you 
did not mean it that way , as you assured me so vehe¬ 
mently. I am your brother. You have known me as 
such ever since you can remember anything here, and my 
little sister was very dear to me,'and I miss her so much 
now that I have lost her.” 

“ Lost her, Mr. Everard ! Lost me ! No, you haven’t,” 
Rosamond said, her eyes filling with tears, which shone 
like stars, as Everard went on : 

“ Yes, I have. I lost her when you put on those long 
dresses and began to meet me in such a formal way, with 
that prim, old duenna always present, as if she was afraid 


1*6 


BEE'S FAMILY. 


I was going to eat you up. Mrs. Markham is ver) nice 
no doubt, but I don’t like that in her. It may be Eng- 
glisli propriety, but it is not American. I’m not going 
to hurt you, and I want sometimes to see you here alone 
and talk freely and cozily, as we used to talk,—about 
your cats, if you like, I don’t care what, if it bringts you 
back to me, for you don’t know how I long for the child 
whom I used to tease so much.” 

He stopped talking, and Rossie was almost beauti¬ 
ful, with the bright color in her cheeks and the soft 
light in her eyes, which were full of tears, as she said, 
impulsively, “ You shall have the child Rossie again, 
Mr. Everard. I am glad you have told me what you 
have. It will make it so much easier now to see you. 
I was always thinking of that , and feeling that you were 
thinking of it, too, and I am happy to know you are not. 
I don’t wish to be stiff and distant with you, and you 
may come as often as you choose, and Mrs. Markham 
need not always be present,—that was as much my idea 
as hers ; but the long dress I must wear now ; it suits me 
better than the short clothes which showed my feet so 
much. You know how you used to tease me.” She was be¬ 
ginning to seem like herself again, and Everard enjoyed 
himself so well that he staid until Mrs. Markham re¬ 
turned, and when at last he left, it was with a feeling 
that he liked the graceful, dignified young girl almost 
as well as he had once liked the child Rossie. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 


BEE S FAMILY. 

FEW days after Everard’s interview with 
Rossie, Beatrice went to Xew York, where 
she spent the winter, returning home early in 
April, and bringing with her a dark-eyed, 
dark-haired, elfish-looking little girl, whom 
V'ir.o?/, an( ] w hose real name was Beatrice Bel¬ 
knap Morion. She was the daughter of a missionary to the 
Feejee Islands, who had brought his invalid wife home 



shoe died 1 




BEE'S FAMILY. 


m 

to America, hoping the air of the Vermont hills might 
restore life and health to her worn-out, wasted frame. 
Bee did not know of his return, and saw him first at a 
missionary meeting which she attended with the friend 
at whose house she was stopping. 

“ v The Rev. Theodore Morton will now tell us some¬ 
thing of his labors among the Feejees,” the presiding 
clergyman said, and Bee, who was sitting far back near 
the door, rose involuntarily to her feet in order to see 
more distinctly the man who was just rising to address 
the audience, and who stood before them, tall, erect, and 
perfectly self-possessed, as if addressing a crowded New 
York house had been the business of his life. 

Was it her Theo, whom she had sent from her to the 
woman in Vermont, more willing than herself to share 
his toils and privations in a heathen land. That Theo 
had been spare and thin, with light beard and sandy 
hair ; this man was broad-shouldered, with well-developed 
physique, and the hair, which lay in curls around his 
massive brow, w T as a . jch chestnut brown, as was the 
heavy beard upon his cheek. It could not be Theo, she 
though, as she sank back into her seat ; but the moment 
she heard tue deep, musical tones of the voice which 
had once a power to thru! her, she knew that it was he, 
and listened breathlessly while he told of his work in 
those islands of the sea, and by his burning eloquence 
and powers of speech stirred up his hearers to greater 
interest in the cause. He loved his work because it was 
his Master's, and loved the poor, benighted heathen, and 
he only came home because of the sick wife and little 
ones, who needed change of scene and air. 

Where was his wife, Bee wondered, and when the 
meeting was over she drove to the house of a clergyman 
who she knew kept a kind of missionary hotel, and from 
him learned the address of the Rev. Theodore Morton, 
[t was not at an uptown hotel, but at a second-rate 
boarding-house on Eighth street, where rooms and board 
were cheap, and there, on the third floor back, she found 
Mrs. Theodore Morton, the school-mistress from Ver¬ 
mont, who had so offended her taste with spectacles and 
a brown alpaca dress. The landlady had bidden her go 
directly to the room, where she knocked at the door, and 
then stood listening to a sweet, childish voice singing a 

8 * 


178 


BEE'S FAMILY\ 


lullaby to a baby. Again she knocked, and this time the 
voice said “ Come in,” and she went in, and found a little 
girl of five years old, with black hair and eyes, and a 
dark, saucv, piquant face, seated in a low rocking-chair, 
and holding in her short, fat arms a pale, sickly baby of 
four months or thereabouts, which she was trying to 
Lush to sleep. Near her, in an arm-chair, sat a round, 
rosy-cheeked little girl, who might have been three years 
old, though her height indicated a child much younger 
than that. On the bed, with her face to the wall, and 
apparently asleep, lay a woman, emaciated and thin, 
with streaks of gray in the long, black hair floating in 
masses over the pillow. Bee thought she must have 
made a mistake, but something in the blue eyes of the 
chubby girl in the chair arrested her attention, and she 
said to the elf with the baby in her arms : 

“ Is Mrs. Morton here,—Mrs. Theodore Morton ?” 

“ Yes, t-hat’s rna,—on the bed. She’s sick ; she’s al¬ 
ways sick. Turn in, but don’t make a noise, ’cause I’se 
tryin’ to rock baby brother to seep, like a good ’ittle 
dirl.” 

“ An’ I’s dood, too,” chirped the dumpling in the high 
chair. “I’ve climbed up here to det out of the way, an’ 
not wake mamma an’ make her head ache, an’ papa’s 
goin’ to bring me some tandy, he is, when he turns from 
the meetin’.” 

There was no mistaking that blue-eyed, fair-haired 
child for other than Theodore Morton’s, and Beatrice 
stooped down and kissed her round, rosy cheek, and 
asked : 

“ yHiat is your name, little one ?” 

“Mamie,—Mamie Morton ; but dey calls me Buncliie, 
’cause I’s so fat, an’ I’s mamma’s darlin’, and was tree 
’ears old next week,” was the reply ; and then Bee 
turned to the elf, and laying her hand on the jet-black 
hair, said : 

“ And your name is what ?” 

“ Trixey everybody calls me but papa, who sometimes 
says Bee ; but that ain’t my very name. It’s ever so 
long, with many B’s in it,” was the reply, and Bee’s 
heart gave a great bound, as she said : 

“ Is it Beatrice ?” 

“ Yes, an’ more too, Beatrice sometinV’ 


BEE'S FAMILY. 


179 


“Beatrice Belknap, perhaps,” guessed the lady, and 
the child replied: 

“That’s it, but how did you know?” and the great 
eyes, so very black and inquisitive, looked wonderingly 
at Bee, who answered:, 

“ I am Beatrice Belknap, the lady for whom you were 
named, and I’ve come to see you. I used to know your 
father. Is he well ?” 

“Papa ? Yes, he’s very well, but mamma,” and the 
child put on a very wise and confidential look as she 
added in a whisper, “mamma’s shiffless all the time.” 

Bee could not repress a smile at this quaint form of 
speech, and she asked: 

“ And do you take care of baby ? Is there no nurse ?” 

“We had Leah over home,” Trixey said, “ but she 
couldn’t come with us, ’cause we’re so poor, an’ papa has 
no money.” 

“But he buyed me some yed soos,” Bunchie said, 
sticking up her little feet, encased in a new pair of red 
morocco shoes, the first she had ever had or probably 
seen. 

How Beatrice’s heart yearned over these little ones 
who had known only poverty, and how she longed to 
lavish upon them a part of her superfluous wealth. 
There was a stir on the bed ; the sleeper was waking, 
and a faint voice called: 

“ Trixey, are you here ?” 

“ Yes, mamma. I’ve rocked brother to seep,” Trixey 
said, starting up, but holding fast to the baby as a cat 
holds to its kitten. “ There’s a lady here, mamma, corned 
to see us,” the child continued, and then Mis. Morton 
roused quickly, and turning on her side fixed her great 
sunken eyes inquiringly on Beatrice, who stepped for¬ 
ward, and with that winning sweetness and grace so 
natural to her, said: 

“ I doubt if you remember me, Mrs. Morton, as you 
only saw me once, and that for a few moments, before 
the Guide sailed from here six years aero. I am an old 
friend of your husband’s. I met him ir: Paris firs: and 
many times after in America. Perhaps you have heard 
him speak of Miss Beatrice Belknap ?” 

“ Yes, Trixey was named for you. It was kind in 
you to call ” Mrs. Morton said, and now she sat upon th« 


180 


BMLB'B FAMILY. 


side of the bed and began to bind up her long black hair, 
which had fallen in her neck. 

“ Let me do that,” Bee said, as she saw how the ex* 
ertion of raising her arms made the invalid cough ; and 
drawing off her gloves, her white hands, on which so 
many costly jewels were shining, were soon arranging 
and twisting the long hair which, though mixed with 
gray, was very glossy and luxuriant. “ You have nica 
hair, and so much of it,” she said, and Mrs. Morton 
replied : 

“Yes, it is very heavy even yet, and is all I have 
left of my youth, though I am not so very old, only 
thirty ; but the life of a missionary’s wife is not con¬ 
ducive to the retaining of one’s good looks.” 

“ Was it so very dreadful?” Bee asked, a little curi¬ 
ous about the life which might have been her own. 

“Not dreadful, but hard ; that is, it was very hard 
on me, who was never strong, though I seemed so to 
strangers. I could not endure much, astd was sick ah 
the way out, so sick that I used to wish I might die and 
be buried in the sea. Then Trixey came so soon, and the 
care of her, and the food, and the climate, and the man¬ 
ner of living there, and the terrible homesickness ! Oh, 
X was so homesick, at first, that I should surely have 
died, if Theo had not been so good. He was always 
kind, and tried to spare me every way.” 

“ Yes, I am sure he did,” Bee said ; feeling at the 
same time a kind of pity for Theo, who, for six years, 
had spared and been kind to this woman, after having 
known and loved her, Beatrice Belknap. 

There was a great difference between these two 
women ; one, bright, gay, sparkling, full of life and 
health, with wealth showing itself in every part of her 
elegant dress, from the India shawl which she had 
thrown across the chair, to the sable muff which had 
fallen on the floor ; the other, sick, tired, disheartened, 
old before her time ; and, alas, habited in the same 
brown alpaca in which she had sailed away, and which 
had been so obnoxious to Beatrice. The material had 
been the best of the kind, and after various turnings and 
fixings, had been made at last into a kind of wrapper, 
which was trimmed with a part of another old brown 
dress of a different shade. Nothing could be more unbe* 


FAMILY. 


181 


BEE'S 

coming to that thin, sallow face, and those dark, hollow 
©yes, than that dress, and never was contrast greater be¬ 
tween two women than that revealed by the mirror 
which hung just opposite the bed where" Mrs. Morton 
was sitting, with Beatrice standing by her. Both looked 
in it together, and met each other’s eyes, and must have 
thought of the same thing, for Mrs. Morton at once 
changed her seat where she could not see herself, and as 
the hair was put up Beatrice also sat down, and, without 
seeming to do so, inspected very minutely the woman 
who w T as Theodore Morton’s wife. 

She was well educated,—and she was well born, too, 
being the daughter, and granddaughter, and great-grand¬ 
daughter of clergymen, while on her mother’s side she 
came from merchants and lawyers, and very far back 
boasted a lieutenant-governor. But she lacked that 
softness, and delicacy, and refinement of manner which 
was Bee’s great charm. She had angles and points, and 
was painfully frank and outspoken, and never practiced 
a deception in her life, or kept back anything she thought 
she ought to say, or flinched from any duty. In short, 
she was New England to the back-bone, and showed it 
in everything. Vermont, or rather the little town of 
Bronson, where she was born, was placarded all over her, 
just as Paris and New York were written all over Bee, 
and she rejoiced in it and was proud of her birthplace. 
Beatrice’s presence there was evidently a trouble and an 
embarrassment. When Theodore Morton went to her 
and asked her to be his wife he had told, her frankly 
that he had loved another and been refused, and she had 
accepted him, and asked no question about her rival. On 
board the ship in the harbor she had been so occupied 
with her own personal friends who were there to say 
good-by, that, though introduced to Miss Belknap, she 
had paid no attention to her, or noticed her in any way. 
When her first child was born, ten months after her 
marriage, she had wished to name it Sarah, for her 
mother, but her husband said to her : “ I would like to 

call it Beatrice Belknap, if you do not mind.” 

She did mind, for she knew now that Beatrice Bel¬ 
knap was her husband’s first choice, but she held it every 
wife’s duty to obey her husband so far as it was right, 
and as there was nothing wrong in this propctftion she 


182 


BEE S FAMILY. 


consented wit Lout a word, and the baby was named fo! 
Beatrice, but familiarly called Trixey, as that pet name 
suited her better. Of the Beatrice over the sea Theo¬ 
dore never spoke, and his wife never questioned him, and 
so she knew nothing of her until she woke from sleep 
and found her there in all her fresh beauty and bright 
plumage, which seemed so out of place in that humble 
room. Of course she was embarrassed and confused, 
but she would not apologize, except as she spoke of the 
life of privation they had led in that heathefi land. 

“ And yet there was much to make me happy,” she 
said. “I knew we were doing God’s work,—which 
somebody must do,—and when some poor creatures blessed 
us for coming to tell them the story of Jesus, I was so 
glad that I had gone to them, and my trials seemed as 
nothing. And then, there was Theo, always the same 
good, true husband to me.” She said this a little de¬ 
fiantly, as if to assure Beatrice that the heart, which 
once might have beaten for her, was now wholly loyal 
to another. 

And Bee accepted it sweetly, but had her own opinion 
on the subject still. 

“ Yes, the Mr. Morton I used to know could never be 
anything but kind to one he loved well enough to make 
his wife,” she said ; and then, by way of turning the con 
versation from Theodore to something else, she asked : 
“Were you sick all the time you were there?” 

“ Yes, most of the time. My children were born so 
fast,—four in five years. I lost a noble boy between 
Mamie and baby Eddie ; that almost killed me, and I’ve 
never been the same since. There is consumption in our 
family far back, and I fear I have inherited it. My 
cough is terrible at times, but I hope much from Vermont 
air and Vermont nursing. Oh, I have longed so for the 
old home at the foot of the mountain, for some water 
from the well, for mother, and to lie on her bed as I 
used to when I was a child, and had the sick-headache.” 

Her eyes filled with tears as she said this, and she 
leaned wearily back in her chair, while Bee involuntarily 
laid her soft, warm hand upon the thin, wasted one where 
the wedding-ring sat so loosely. Just then the door 
opened and Theodore Morton came in, the same Beatrice 
had heard at the missionary meeting, the same with 


"X 


BEB 'S 


188 


1MILY. 


whom she had strolled through the Kentucky woods and 
on the shore of Quinsigamond Pond. He knew her at 
once, but nothing in his face or voice betrayed any con¬ 
sciousness of the past, if he felt it. He met her naturally 
and cordially, said he was very glad to see her, that it was 
kind in her to find them out, and then passed on to his 
sick wife, on whose head he laid his hand caressingly, 
asking if it ached as hard as ever, or if she was feeling a 
Sittle better. 

“You look better certainly,” he said, regarding her 
curiously, not knowing that the improvement was owing 
to the artistic way in which Beatrice had knotted up the 
heavy hair, which showed at the sides and added appar¬ 
ent breadth to the thin, narrow face. 

What a noble-looking man he was, and how well he 
appeared, as if he had associated with kings and queens 
instead of the poor heathen, and what a change his 
presence made in that dingy back room, which, with 
him in it, had at once an atmosphere of home and do¬ 
mestic happiness. He had been there but a few moments 
at the most, but in that time he had smoothed his wife’s 
hair, and called her Mollie, the pet name she liked, and 
made her smile, had tossed Bunchie in the air and stuffed 
her fat hands with candy, had kissed little Trixey, and 
given her a new picture-book, and taken the baby from 
her and was walking with it up and down the room to 
hush its wailing cry. And between times he talked to 
Beatrice, naturally and easily, asking for the people he 
used to know in Rothsay, and if she was living there 
now ; then, stopping suddenly, he said : 

“ I beg your pardon for taking it for granted you 
were Miss Belknap still. Are you married ? You used 
to be a sad flirt.” 

He said the last playfully, and the two looked at each 
other an instant, and their eyes dropped suddenly as if 
alarmed at what they saw. 

“I am Bee Belknap still, and as great a flirt as 
ever,” Bee replied ; and then the Rev. Theo did a most 
remarkable thing ; he turned to his wife, and said : 

“ Mollie, dear, do you know I was once foolish 
enough to ask this gay bird to go with me to the Feegees, 
and she had the good sense to refuse. Wouldn’t she 


m 


BEE'S FAMILY. 


have cut a fine figure out there with all her finery an<£ 
fashion ?” 

“ Yes, T know,” Mol lie said faintly, while Bee rejoined, 
laughingly: “You ought to be very thankful that 1 
preferred fashion to Feegees ; such a life as I should 
have led you.” 

“ You would have died,” Mollie rejoined, and the 
conversation on that subject ceased. 

Theo had set things right for them all by his plain 
and playful allusion to the past, which, from that allu 
sion, would be supposed to have no part in his present 
life, and to have left no mark upon him. He seemed 
very happy with his children, and very kind to his wife, 
who was a different creature with his strong, mesmeric 
influence near her. 

“I believe she’d be passably good-looking if she 
were decently dressed. She has good hair, not bad fea¬ 
tures, and rather fine eyes ; but where are the glasses, 
she surely wore them away ?” Beatrice thought, and at 
last she ventured to say Excuse me, Mrs. Morton, but 
did you not wear glasses on shipboard six years ago ?” 

“Yes,” was the reply, “my eyes were weak from 
over-study, trying to master the language, and I was 
obliged to wear glasses for a time. I laid them off after 
Trixey was born. Theo never liked me in them.” 

As the short March afternoon was wearing to a close 
Beatrice soon rose to go, after first asking how long the 
Mortons intended to remain in the city. 

“We have written to mother to know if she can re¬ 
ceive us,” Mrs. Morton said, “ and shall go as soon as we 
get her answer. I am afraid we shall crowd and worry 
her too much, for the house is small, and she and father 
are old and poor, and may not want ns all.” 

“Never mind, Mollie,” Theo said, “don’t kill the bear 
till you see itthen, turning to Beatrice, he added, not 
complaining, but laughingly, “ Mollie has a great way of 
borrowing trouble, while I wait till it comes.” 

“ It’s my poor health ; my nerves; I can’t help it,” 
the invalid said, with a quiver in her voice and about her 
lips. 

“ Of course you can’t, Mollie,” and again the broad, 
warm hand was placed upon Mollie’s head by way of re¬ 
assurance. 


BEE S FAJTIET. 


186 


Theo went with Bee to her carriage, and handed her 
in, and told her to come again, and said he would call on 
her, and was not one whit more demonstrative when alons 
with her than he was up in that back room with hia 
neivous wife looking on. But Bee did not quite be¬ 
lieve he was perfectly happy. How could he be with 
Mollie. 

And yet she was very sorry for Mollie, who, she was 
sure, was a much better woman than herself, and the 
next day, which was very line, she drove again to No. 
—— Eighth street, and invited the sick woman to ride. 

“The coupe is close, and I brought an extra shawl to 
keep you nice and warm,” she said, as she threw over 
Mrs. Morton’s shoulders her second-best India shawl, 
which covered up the black delaine, trimmed with half 
worn silk, which Mollie wore. 

It was her best, Bee knew, for little Trix had said, 
exultingly, “ Ma’s got on her bestest down to-day.” 

“Yes, my best, and almost my all,” Mrs. Morton 
said, “ but I have money for a new one ; some English 
ladies give it me, and told me to get a black silk. I’ve 
never had one in my life : would you mind going with 
me somewhere and helping me pick it out: you are a so 
much better judge of silk than I am?” 

Bee flinched a little inwardly as she looked at the 
dowdy woman, in her queer, old-fashioned bonnet, and 
thought of the fashionable ladies, her friends, who were 
sure to be shopping at this hour, and who always spied 
her out and pounced upon her. But she shut her teeth 
together hard, bade the coachman drive to Arnold’s, 
resolved to beard the elegant man at the silk counter, 
who was always so obsequious to Miss Belknap, the 
heiress and belle. Everybody was out that day, and 
Bee met at least half a dozen friends before she reached 
the silk counter, where she found her man, bland, atten¬ 
tive, and eager to serve her. 

“Black silk,” she said, and he showed her at once 
camples varying in price from eight to ten dollars a 
yard. 

“Oh, dear, no! something cheaper, much cheaper,” 
Mrs. Morton gasped; and then the clerk knew that the 
faded, countrified-looking woman whom he had not at 

all considered as belonging to Miss Belknap, was the 


186 


BEE'S FAMILY. 


real customer, and his face changed its expression at 
once as he put back his high-priced silks with an injured 
air, and said: “You will find what you want farther 
down. We have nothing cheap here.” 

“ I think you have,” Beatrice said to him. “ Show 
me something at four dollars a yard.” 

“ Certainly,” and again the clerk was all smiles and 
attention, and began to exhibit his goods, while Mrs. 
Morton whispered nervously, “ But, Miss Belknap, you 
don’t understand. I’ve only forty dollars; I cannot 
afford it.” 

I can,” Beatrice replied. “ I have more money than 
I can spend. Let me give you the dress. I’ll take it as a 
great favor, and you can use the forty dollars for some¬ 
thing else.” 

There were tears in Mrs. Morton’s eyes, and her face 
was very white, as she said : 

“No, no; that’s too much from you, a stranger. 
Theo would not like it.” 

“ I’ll make it right with Theo. I’m not a stranger to 
him,” Bee answered, and so the silk was bought, and vel¬ 
vet to trim it with, and then they moved to another part 
of the store for something for the children, and met a 
whole regiment of ladies, Mrs. Gen. Stuckup with Mrs. 
Sniffe, who were delighted to see Bee, bift looked 
askance at her companion, wondering if it was some poof 
relation of whom they had never heard, and commiser¬ 
ating Bee, who must feel so mortified. 

She was not mortified one whit now, though she had 
been at the start, but she despised herself thoroughly 
for it and was very attentive to her companion, and when 
Mrs. Sniffe, who was frightfully envious of her, and never 
failed to sting her if she could do it, asked her in an 
aside, with a roll of her eyes ; “ Who is that frump of a 
woman, and how came she fastened to you ?” she an¬ 
swered, readily, “It is Mrs. Theodore Morton, wife of 
a returned missionary, whose name you must have seen 
if you ever read the papers. He is very highly esteemed 
by the board as a Christian and a gentleman. Some con¬ 
nection of Gov. Morton, of Massachusetts, I believe.” 

“ Oh, yes, and you are doing missionary work in your , 
own way, I see. It’s quite like 3 * 00 ,” Mrs. Sniffe said, aa* 


BEE'8 FAMILY i 


187 


site passed on to tne laces and left Bee and Mrs. Morton 
to themselves. 

“That woman made fun of me and called me a 
frump,” Mrs. Morton falteringly said, with a quivering 
lip, but fire in her eye, as she looked after the retreat¬ 
ing bundle of velvet, and silk, and ostrich feathers. 

“Never mind. You don’t care for her. They say 
she used to work in the factory at Lowell, and married a 
man old enough to be her father, but he had a million, 
and died, and left it to her, and now she is Mrs. Sniffe, 
and leads a certain class of simpletons,” Bee replied, and 
so Mrs. Morton was reconciled to Mrs. Sniffe’s snub, and 
more than reconciled to her husband’s first love when 
she saw how kind and generous she was, spending her 
money so freely, and doing it all as if it were a great 
favor to herself rather than an act of charity to the poor 
woman, who returned to her boarding-house laden with 
more dry-goods for herself and children than she had 
seen during the entire period of her married life. 

It was two days before Beatrice went again to her 
family on Eighth street, and then she found Mrs. Morton 
alone, and very much depressed, on account of a letter 
that morning received from her father. 

As she gave Beatrice the letter to read, I will give it 
to my readers. It was as follows : 

“My Beloved Daughter :—Many thanks be to God 
for having brought you safely to America, and given us 
to believe that we shall see your face again and that of 
the little ones, our grandchildren. I cannot tell you how 
glad we are, your mother, and myself, and Aunt Nancy, 
too, though I think she dreads the litter and the grease- 
spots the children are sure to make, her life has been so 
quiet, you know. For myself, I long to see the bairns 
and hear their young voices. It will make me young 
again, though the years are bearing me down now so 
fast. Sixty-eight is nigh on to three score and ten, car 
allotted time. 

“ And now about your coming here for the summer 
Of course you are welcome as the blossoms of May, 1: ■ • 
I should be keeping back something if i did not te ] - y o i 
just the situation of things in the old parsonage. Your 

mother is down with nervous prostration, and has been 


BEE'S FAMILY. 


lfc ’8 

for months, and as she is very weak I occupy a separate 
room from hers. Your Aunt Nancy has another, and 
that only leaves your own old room for you and Theo¬ 
dore and the three children. Of course, I don’t count 
that place over the woodshed, where we can have a bed 
for a girl or a boy. You cannot have three children in 
your room even when your husband is away, it is so 
small, and Nancy would as soon have a woodchuck in 
with her as a child ; so at first it was a question how to 
dispose of you. But Providence provided, as He always 
does. Your mother and I made it a subject of prayer, 
asking in our blind way that God would incline Nancy 
either to change rooms, or to have a little cot set up in 
b.ers, and feeling confident He would hear the prayer of 
faith. lie did hear and answer, but in His own way, 
which was not ours. He did not soften your Aunt 
Nancy, but he sent your cousin Julia to us to say tha* 
she would gladly take one of the little girls for a w T hile 
You know she is rich and has no children, and it will be 
a nice home for the child, and Nancy says, ‘Let her have 
the one that will be likely to fill our house the fullest 
and make the most to do ,’ whatever that may be. 

“ And now, having stated the case as it is, we shall 
be glad to see you any day, only on Nancy’s account you 
may as well let us know, as everything will have to be 
scoured with soap and sand. I hear her now at the 
kitchen table, which somebody has spilt a drop of milk 
on. 

“Your mother joins me in love, and prays for you. 

“ Affectionately your father, 

“Cyrus Brown.” 

“What a nice letter, and what a good old man ho 
must be,” Beatrice said, as she finished reading. 

“Yes,” Mrs. Morton answered, hesitatingly; “it is 
nice, and he is good, and mother, too; but the idea of 
losing one of the children is dreadful to me. There is 
always some thorn in my rose. I have thought so much 
of going back to the old house under the apple trees, and 
having my little ones with me ; and now you see what 
he says,—one must go to Cousin Julia Hayden.” 

In Mrs. Morton’s roses there would always be thorns, 

fancied or real, but Bee did not tell her so j she merely 


B&jBI'S FAMILY 


asked: ‘‘Who is Mrs. Hayden? Is she fond of chil¬ 
dren ? Will she be kind to them ?” 

“ She is my cousin on mother’s side,” Mrs. Morton 
said. “ Sue is the great woman of Bronson, and the 
richest, and lives in the grandest house. She never had 
any children of her own, and I do not think her very 
fond of them. She would be kind in a certain way, but 
very exacting. She does not understand them. She 
used to teach school, and was very strict, indeed. She 
could not make allowances for the difference between 
herself and little folks. She is Aunt Nancy’s own 
niece.” 

“ And who is Aunt Nancy ?” Bee asked, and Mrs. 
Morton replied, “ Mother’s old maid sister, Nancy 
Phillips, who has always lived with us. She is the neat¬ 
est, most particular person you ever saw; and because 
she is strong and willing, and mother is feeble, she has 
run the house so long that she thinks it is her own, and 
orders father as if he were a dog. But she has many 
excellent traits, and they could not live without her. She 
tvas always kind to me, and I’d rather trust my children 
with her than with Cousin Julia Hayden. It is very 
hard, and makes me so nervous.” 

“ Yes, I can fancy it all,” Bee said ; and then, recur¬ 
ring to the letter, she added : “ You are to give up the 
one which will fill the house the fullest and make the 
most noise. Now, which is that?” 

Instantly the eyes of both went over to the window, 
where Trixey was combing and brushing Bunchie’s hair, 
pulling and snarling it awfully, and talking all the time 
as fast as her tongue could fly. Yes, there was no mis¬ 
take. Little Trix would fill the house the fullest and 
make the greatest to do , and Mrs. Hayden would never 
understand her, or make allowance for her busy, active 
ways ; and Beatrice wanted her for herself, and said at 
last to Mrs. Morton : “ Will you let me have Trixey, for 
as long a time as Mrs. Hayden would keep her? I know 
I can make her happy. You can trust her with me.” 

Mrs. Morton was sure of that. During the few days 
she had known Miss Belknap she had received from her 
too many kindnesses to think op her as other than a 
friend, and one to be trusted. At first, she had looked a 
little suspiciously upon the elegant woman who had been 


190 


BEE'S FAMILY. 


Theo’s first choice, and who was so unlike herself, and 
she had more than once thought, “ How could he have 
chosen me after knowing her ?” She did not say “ love 
me,” for she had been morally sure that when she be 
came Theodore Morton’s wife there was not much love 
on his side at least. She had loved him for years, and 
been picked out for his wife since she was a little 
girl. His father and grandfather had been clergymen, 
and he had been her father’s pupil when the Rev. Mr. 
Brown taught a small school for boys, by way of ekeing 
out his salary. Theo had said then he meant to be a mission¬ 
ary, and she had said she meant to be one, too, and wise 
ones predicted that they might go together. But the 
young man wandered very far away fiom quiet Bronson, 
and its staid, old-fashioned people, and went to Europe, 
and fell in with Bee Belknap, and forgot the plain, angu¬ 
lar Mary Brown, in the home under the apple-trees, who 
had mended his clothes, and studied Latin and Greek, 
and talked enthusiastically of a missionary’s life as the 
happiest and best a man could choose. He had never 
quite believed it possible that a bright, gay creature like 
Bee, with hundreds of thousands at her command, would 
go with him to those islands in the far-off Pacific, but he 
nevertheless asked her the question, and her answer, 
given tearfully and sadly, and rather as a refusal of the 
Feejees than of himself, scattered the sweetest dream of 
his life, and with a new-made grave in his heart he went 
back to Bronson on a matter of business he had with Mr 
Brown. That he should take a wife with him seemed a 
necessity, and as Mary was ready, and more than willing, 
and he cared little now who it was, so that she was good 
and true and pure, he married her with no love in his 
heart for her, only a great respect, and a registered vow 
that she should receive from him everything but love, 
and if it were possible, should never feel the absence of 
that. And she had not, for he had kept his vow relig¬ 
iously, and only when he gave the name to Trixey had 
she experienced a little prick of jealousy, and felt curious 
with regard to the original Beatrice. If he did not 
choose to tell her of the lady she would not ask, and so 
knew nothing till she met her in New York, and was 
dazzled and bewildered, and troubled, and a very little 
annoyed at first, and finally won by the sparkling, bril- 


BEE'S FAMILY. 


191 


bant woman who had done so much for her, and who 
now stood offering to take Trixey off her hands and save 
her from Mrs. Hayden. She knew she could trust her, 
and that Trix would be safe with her, but she shrank 
from parting with the helpful, motherly child, who did 
so much for her and the baby, and she hesitated in her 
answer, and said at last she would see what Theodore 
would say. 

Theodore approved the plan heartily, if Trixey must 
go somewhere to be out of the sick grandmother’s and 
Aunt Nancy’s way. But now there arose trouble in 
an unexpected quarter. Trixey herself demurred. She 
loved the pretty lady, and was interested to hear about 
the dolls and dresses, and the cats and kittens, and pret¬ 
ty little tea-set and table, and wash-tub, and flat-iron, 
which should all be hers in that new home in Ohio. The 
wash-tub, and flat-iron, and tea-set made her waver a 
little, till she glanced at Bunchie, when, with quivering 
lip, she said : 

“ What good to have ever so many sings, and Bunchie 
not with me to see me use the flat-iron and was-tub, 
and sit at the other end of the table when I makes the 
tea ?” 

This was the ground she took. Bunchie would not 
be there to share her happiness, and she did not swerve 
from it until her father appealed to her sense of right 
and told her the real reason why she should go. Grand¬ 
pa’s house was very small, and he was poor. Grandma 
was sick, and Aunt Nancy could not have so many chil¬ 
dren round. 

“ But I could help her lots. I’d rock baby brudder 
to seep, and wipe the dishes ever so many times, and be 
so good and still as Bunchie,” pleaded the little girl ; 
but she was persuaded at last to go because it was right, 
and God would love her if she did, and take care of 
Bunchie and baby brother, and in the summer she should 
come and see them in the old home ; and so it was quite 
settled that Trixey was to go with Beatrice, who felt 
more and more the wisdom of the decision when that 
very afternoon she met Mrs. Hayden herself in Mrs. 
Morton’s room, and had an opportunity of judging what 
manner of person she was, and what Trixey’s chance for 
happiness would have been with her. 


m 


BEE'8 FAMILY. 


She was a tall, large, finely-formed woman, with great 
black eyes, bushy eyebrows, and a growth of hair about 
her wide mouth which gave her a more masculine ap¬ 
pearance even than did her figure and size. She spoke 
loudly and decidedly, as one used to her own way, as 
well as to dictate the way of others. Her dress was 
very rich and showy, but not New- Yorkey a bit, Bee de¬ 
cided, after a rapid survey of the lady, who scrutinized 
her as closely, and decided that she was New-Yorkey, 
and wondered who her dressmaker was. To faded, plain 
Mrs. Morton she was very patronizing and frank, and 
told her that what she wanted was fresh air, and cold 
baths, and oatmeal to bring her up again, while her 
mother, who had been sick so long, needed effort and 
energy. She could get up if she only thought so. 
Nervous prostration was not a disease ; it was a fancy, 
which, if indulged in, would end in one’s being bed-rid¬ 
den. 

“ I’ve made it a rule to guard against nervousness in 
every form, and what is the result? I have never been 
sick a day in my life, and have no idea how it feels to 
have the headache, or the toothache, or the backache, or, 
in fact, any ache, and that is the way it should be.” 

She looked the woman never to have an ache or 
pain, or if she had, to strangle it at once, and Beatrice 
shrank from her involuntarily as from an Amazon, while 
poor, sick Mrs. Morton colored scarlet, and roused in 
defense of her own ailments, which Mrs. Hayden seemed 
to think she could help. 

“ Just because you’ve never been sick, Julia,” she 
said, “ you cannot understand it in others, but you go 
oat a missionary once, and have four children in six 
years, and be as poor as poor can be, and you might 
know something of aches and pains, and have some 
weaknesses which cold baths and oatmeal could not 
cure.” 

“ I would not go out as a missionary, and I would not 
have the four children in six years; so you see it is not a 
supposable case,” Mrs. Hayden retorted, and then Bee 
hated her, and was doubly glad that little Trix was not 
to fall into her hands. 

Mrs. Hayden herself was not sorry. She had made 
the offer from a sense of duty, for she was high up in 


BEE'S FAMILY. 


everything of that kind, and performed her duties 
rigidly, from dieting her husband, a weak, feeble man, 
on oatmeal and pearl barley, to telling her neighbors 
their faults, and how they could amend them. She did 
uot like children, and it had cost her something to make 
up her mind to have one in her house; but she had made 
the offer, and meant to stand by it if it should be 
accepted. Finding it convenient just then to visit New 
York, she had called upon her poor relations to learn the 
result of her offer, and when told what it was she 
expressed no regret, but asked many question about Miss 
Belknap, who seemed to her to be crazy to think of tak¬ 
ing Trixey. Suddenly there flashed upon her the recol¬ 
lection of a rumor heard years ago, and, in her usual 
brusque way, she asked : 

u Is she the girl to whom Theo was once engaged, 
and who jilted him ?” 

“ They never were engaged, but he liked her,” Mrs. 
Morton answered faintly, while a throb of neuralgic 
pain shot through her head, and a bright red spot burned 
cn her cheeks. 

She was far more a lady, in her brown alpaca dress¬ 
ing-gown, than was this biunt women in her velvet and 
silk ; and so Beatrice thought when she came in immedi¬ 
ately after her identity with Theo’s first love had been 
proved. Mrs. Hayden never acknowledged any person 
her superior, but she saw at a glance that Miss Belknap 
was somebody , and an important somebody, too, and 
thought to stamp herself as somebody, by talking of her 
house, and grounds, and servants, and the watering- 
places she frequented, and the people she had met. She 
was now stopping on Madisqp avenue with Mrs. Sniffe, 
who was Mr. Hayden’s cousin ; probably Miss Belknap 
knew Mrs. Sniffe, or at least had heard of her. She 
attended Dr. Adams’ church, and was quite a leader 
there. 

“ Do you know her ?” she asked squarely ; and Be® 
replied : 

“ Yes, i have some acquaintance with Mrs. Sniffe. I 
meet her occasionally at parties.” 

•Somorhing in the tone made Mrs. Hayden look suspi¬ 
ciously ai Beatrice, as she wondered whether it was Mrs. 
Sniffe who was only to be met at general parties, or Miss 

9 


194 


BEE '8 FAMILY. 


Belknap herself ; while Mrs. Morton felt emboldened tc 
say : 

“ Mrs. Sniffe,—that’s the woman we met at Arnold’s 
who called me a frump. Maybe she forgets that she 
once worked in the factory at Lowell.” 

She had fired her heavy gun, and felt better for it, in* 
asmuch as she had hit the enemy, who reddened, as she 
replied : 

“ I believe she was there for a short time, but honest 
labor does not hurt a person in this country.” 

Then she talked of Mrs. Sniffe’s grandeur and style, 
until Bee was tired of it and arose to go, promising to 
call next day and decide when to take Trixey. Mrs. 
Hayden followed her into the hall, and, begging her 
pardon, asked who made the dress she was wearing. 

“ Mademoiselle Verwest made it and sent it to me. 

Her address is No. -, Rue St. Honore, Paris,” Bee 

replied. 

And, somewhat discomfited, Mrs. Hayden bowed her 
thanks, and returned to her cousin, whom she badgered 
about her weak nerves, and want of energy, until the 
poor woman burst into an uncontrollable fit of weeping, 
and cried herself sick. 

Beatrice found her in bed next day, and as the little 
room seemed so close and full of children, she carried 
Trixey away with her to her friend’s house, and for 3 
day or two devoted herself wholly to the child, who was 
kept in such a state of surprise and bewilderment that 
she did not once cry for the mother down on Eighth 
street. Beatrice bought her a doll nearly as large as 
herself, and bought her a kitchen, with wash-tub and 
stove, and a China tea-set and table, and beautiful 
dresses for herself, and then whisked her off to the 
train before she had time to recover from the excite¬ 
ment of so many wonderful things. Mr. Morton was at 
the depot, but Trixey did not see him. It was thought 
better that she should not, so he looked his farewell 
from a distance, but said good-by to Beatrice, and held 
her hand closely pressed in his own, as he said: 

“ God bless you, Bee, for all you have done for us. 
We never can forget it. Good-by. You will, of course, 
write to Mollie as soon as you get home.” 

“Yes, certainly,” Beatrice said, hating herself be- 



BEE ’£ FAMILY . 


196 

cause the name Mollie as spoken by Theo gra ,ed on her 
nerves, and seemed in some way a wrong to herself. 

Bee knew such feelings were foolish, and as often as 
they rose within her, she took Trix in her lap and kissed 
her, and talked to her of the mother they were leaving 
so far behind, and whose eyes looked at her through the 
child’s, save that Trixey’s were larger, and more wei*d 
in their expression. 

It was late in the afternoon when they reached Roth- 
say, and were driven to Elm Park. Bee had telegraphed 
to Aunt Rachel that she was coming with a little girl, so 
everything was in readiness for them, and Trixey was 
made much of, and talked to and looked at, until she 
began to nod in her chair, and was taken up to bed. 

That evening Everard came up to Elm Park w T ith 
Rosamond. They had just heard of Bee’s return, and 
hastened at once to see her. Everard was looking about 
the same as when Beatrice saw him last, except that he 
was perhaps a little thinner. He was working pretty 
hard, he said, and earning some money, but his dress did 
not indicate anything like reckless expenditure upon 
himself, and Beatrice felt sure that Josephine was draw¬ 
ing heavily upon him. 

He was now quite at home at the Forrest House, and 
was there nearly every evening, and Beatrice felt some¬ 
thing like a throb of fear when she saw his eyes resting 
upon Rossie, as if loth to leave the fresh young face, 
which had grown so bright and attractive during the last 
few months. She was growing very pretty, and her 
figure looked graceful and womanly when at last she 
arose to go, and stood while Everard folded her shawl 
around her, drawing it close up about her neck so as to 
shield her throat, which was a little sore. Something in 
that shawl adjustment and the length of time it took 
sent another thrill through Bee’s nerves, and the moment 
they were gone she went to her room, where Trixey lav 
sleeping, and bending over the child, wondered if in all 
lives things got as terribly mixed as they were in hera 
and Everard’s. 



X96 


IN THE BUMMER. 


CHAPTER XXIY. 



IN THE 8UIMEE 

RIXEY did not thrive well in her new home, 
though everything which human ingenuity 
could devise was done to make her happy 
and contented. But in spite of everything 
Trixey could not quite overcome her home¬ 
sickness. Many times a day she disappeared from sight 
and was gone a long time, and when she came back there 
was a mysterious redness about her eyes, which she said, 
by way of explanation, were “ kind of sore, she dessed. 
Maybe she had got some dust in ’em.” 

This went on for weeks, until at last, in a fit of re¬ 
morse lest she had been guilty of a lie, the conscientious 
child burst out: 

“ ’Tain’t dust, ’tain’t sore that makes ’em red; it’s 
wantin’ to see papa, and mamma, and Bunchie, and baby 
brudder. Was it a lie, and is I a naughty dirl to make 
breve it was dust ?” 

Then Bee felt that it would be wrong to keep her 
any longer, and wrote to Mrs. Morton to that effect. 

Mrs. Morton and Bunchie were still in Bronson, but 
Theo was supplying a vacant pulpit in Boston, and only 
saw his wife once in two or three weeks. There wag 
room in the parsonage now for homesick Trixey, for the 
sickly baby had died suddenly with cholera infantum, 
and the same letter which carried the news to Beatrice 
asked that Trixey might be sent to Vermont. 

“ Sent her by express,” Mrs. Morton wrote, “ or will 
you bring her yourself ? We shall be so glad to see you, 
though we cannot offer you a bed here, we are so full, 
but there is a good country hotel near us, and Cousin 
Julia Hayden, whom you met in New York, wishes me 
to say that she will be very glad to entertain you at her 
own house. I hope you will come, for though our ac¬ 
quaintance is so recent, you seem to me like a friend of 
years, and I feel that the sight of you may do rae good, 
now that my heart is so sore with the loss of my baby.” 

“ I’ll go,” Bee said, as she finished reading the letter, 






11 Y TEE 


SUMMER. 


191 


deciding all the more readily on account of a little in 
cident which had occurred the night before, and which 
filled her with alarm for both Everard and Rosamond. 

They had walked together t Elm Park, and sat with 
her for an hour or more on the piazza, where the full 
moon was shining brightly. This time there had beeri 
no shawl to adjust, for the early June night was warm 
and balmy, but there was a slight dampness in the air, 
and Everard’s solicitude lest Rosamond should take cold 
or contract a sore throat was noticeable in the extreme. 
Two or three times he pulled the fleecy cloud of Berlin 
wool about her neck, and asked if she were quite com¬ 
fortable, and once he let his hand rest on her shoulder 
for some minutes, while he sat looking at her with ar 
expression on his face which Josephine might have re 
sented had she seen it. And Bee, with her strong sens* 
of right and wrong, resented it for her, or rather for 
Rosamond, whom she would not see sacrificed without a 
protest. So when they arose to go home, she led Ever¬ 
ard away from Rossie, and when sure she could not be 
heard, said to him, earnestly : 

“Pardon me, Everard, but you are altogether too 
solicitous about Rosamond’s health. Let her take care 
of herself. She is capable of doing it, and, remem¬ 
ber, there are bounds you must not pass, or suffer her to 
approach. It would be very cruel to her.” 

“Yes, I know,” he answered, coloring deeply as he 
spoke. “You need not fear for Rossie. She is my 
sister, nothing more ; and even if I were disposed to 
make her something else, do you suppose I can ever for¬ 
get the past ?” 

He spoke bitterly, and showed plainly how gladly he 
would free himself, if possible, from the bond which 
held him, and which was growing daily more and more 
hateful to him. 

As far as she could see them in the moonlight Rea* 
trice watched Everard and Rossie as they walked slowly 
down the avenue which Jed to the street, and when Lbey 
were out of sight she said to herself : “ He ought to ac¬ 
knowledge his marriage, and he must, even if he does 
not take his wife, which might be the better thing to do. 
There must be good in her,—something to build upon, if 
ander the right influence, with somebody to encourage 


198 


.V THE SUMMER 


and stimulate her to do her best. I wish I knew her,— 
wish I dared face her in her own home, and judge what 
kind of person she is.” 

This was Bee’s thought the night before she read 
Mrs. Morton’s letter inviting her to Bronson, and when 
she read it the thought resolved itself into a fixed pur 
pose, the first step of which was to take Trixey to her 
mother. Poor little Trixey, who turned so white, but did 
not at first shed a tear, when told of her baby brother’s 
death. Half an hour later, however, Beatrice found her 
in the garden, with her face in the grass, sobbing as if 
her heart would break for the dead brother, of whom 
she said to Bee, “ I wouldn’t feel so bad to have him 
w : th Jesus, oniy I shaked him once hard, when he was so 
cross and heavy, and I was so tired, and he wouldn’t go 
to sleep. I’se so sorry. Will God let me go to Heaven 
some day and see him, and tell him I’se sorry ?” 

As well as she could, Beatrice comforted and re¬ 
assured the weeping child, whose conscientiousness and 
sweet faith and trust in God were leading her into ways 
she , had only known in theory, but which were be¬ 
ginning to be very pleasant to her feet, as she learned 
each day some new lesson from the trusting child. 

It was near the latter part of June, the season of 
roses, and pinks, and water lilies in New England, when 
she at last took Trixey to the old brown house under the 
shadow of the apple trees, where the mountain air was 
filled with perfume from the flowers blossoming on the 
borders by the door, and where Bunchie played in the 
soft summer sunshine under the snow-ball tree by the 
well. It was such a plain, but pleasant old house, with 
the rafters overhead showing in the kitchen, and the 
great box-like beams in the corners of the room,—for 
the old house claimed to have seen a hundred years, 
and to have heard the guns of the Revolu¬ 
tion. But it was very cheerful and home¬ 
like, and neat as soap and sand and Aunt Nancy’s 
hands could make it. Aunt Nancy was the first to wel¬ 
come Miss Belknap, looking a little askance at her style 
and manners, and wondering how they could ever enter¬ 
tain so fine a lady even for a few hours. Mrs. Morton 
was sick with a headache, and Mrs. Brown was still 
down with nervous prostration, having stoutly resisted 


IN TEE SUMMER 


m 


&u Mrs. Julia Hayden’s advice about making an effort, 
ana hints which sometimes amounted to assertions that 
she could get up if she liked, and would diet on oatmeal 
and barley. In her last letter to Mrs. Morton, Beatrice 
Uad declined Mrs. Hayden’s offer, and said she should 
feel more independent at the hotel for the short time she 
should remain in Bronson, but within half an hour after 
ner arrival at the parsonage, Mrs. Hayden was there 
also, in her handsome carriage, drawn by her shining black 
horses, and driven by a shining black coachman, in 
gloves and brass buttons, and she insisted so hard upon 
Beatrice stopping with her, that the latter finally ac¬ 
cepted the invitation, but said she would remain for the 
day where she was and see if she could not be of some 
comfort and help to Mrs. Morton, who seemed better 
from the moment she came and laid her soft hands on 
her head. 

“ Nothing can help her or her mother, either, unless 
they make an effort,” Mrs. Hayden said, with a toss of 
her head, and a flash of her black eyes. “ Spieeny and 
notional both of them as they can be; call it nervous, 
if you like; what’s nervousness but fidgets ? I was 
never nervous; but if I’d give up every time the weather 
changes, or I felt a little weak, I might have prostration, 
too. There’s Harry, my husband, would have died long 
ago if I had not kept him up just by my own energy and 
will. I make him sleep with the windows open, and he 
takes a cold bath every morning at six o’clock, and eats 
oatmeal for his breakfast, with a cup of hot water 
instead of coffee or tea.” 

“ And does he thrive on that diet ? Is he well and 
strong ?” Bee asked, and Mrs. Hayden replied : 

“Well and strong? No: he could not be that in 
the nature of things, he comes from a sickly stock; 
but he keeps about, which is better than lying in bed and 
moping all the time.” 

Plow strong and full of life Mrs. Hayden was, and so 
unsympathetic that Beatrice did not wonder Mrs. Mor¬ 
ton shivered and shrank away even from the touch of 
her large, powerful hands. 

“ I am sometimes wicked enough to wish she might 
be sick herself, or at least nervous, so as to know how it 
feels,” Mrs. Morton said, after her cousin had gonev 


LX THE SUMMER 


m 

“She thinks I can do as she does, and the thing is mpes- 
sible. My health is destroyed, and I sometimes fear 1 
shall never be well again.” 

She bad failed since Beatrice saw her, and her eves 
looked so large and glassy as she lay upon the piiiow, 
and her cough was so constant and irritating, that to 
talk of effort and oatmeal to her seemed preposterous 
and cruel. What she needed was rest, and nursing, and 
care, and change of thought and occupation, and these 
she could not have in their fullest extent at the parson¬ 
age, with poverty and a sick mother, and bustling, irrita¬ 
ble Aunt Nancy to act as counter influences. She must 
be taken entirely away, and amused, and nursed, and pet¬ 
ted, and Beatrice began to see the first step of that vague 
plan formed in Rotlisay, and which she meant to carry 
out. 

For a day or two she staid in Bronson, sleeping and 
eating in Mrs. Hayden’s grand house, and feeling all her 
sympathies enlisted for shriveled-up Mr. Hayden, who 
in the morning came shivering to the table from his cold 
bath, and swallowed his oatmeal and hot water dutifully, 
but with an expression on his thin, sallow face which 
showed how his stomach rebelled against it and craved 
the juicy steak and fragrant coffee with which his bloom¬ 
ing wife regaled herself, because she was strong and 
could bear it. Once Bee ventured to suggest that steak 
and beef-tea might be a more nutritious diet even for a 
dyspeptic than oatmeal and barley, varied with dry 
toast and baked apples ; but Mrs. Hayden knew. She 
had read up on stomachs , and nerves , and digestion , and 
knew every symptom of dyspepsia, and its cause, and 
what it needed, and how a person ought to feel; and her 
husband submitted quietly, and said, “Julie was right,” 
and grew thinner, and paler, and weaker every day with 
cold baths and starvation ; but he kept the respect of 
his wife because he tried to be well, and that was a great 
thing to do, for in his estimation she was a wonderful 
woman, and represented the wisdom of the world. 

On the third day Beatrice left Bronson, to look, 
she said, for some quiet, pleasant nook, where she 
could spend a few weeks during the hot weather. She 
found such a place in Ilolburton, whither she came one 
warm July afternoon, when the town was at its best. It 


iy TUB SUMMER. 


201 


was not an uuheard-of thing for city people to pass a 
few weeks in Holburton during the hot weather, and no 
one was surprised when Miss Belknap registered her 
name on the hotel books, and said she was looking for 
some quiet and reasonable boarding-house for an invalid 
with two children. Several were recommended to her, 
and with the list in her hand she started out to recon• 
no iter. 

Mrs. Roxie Fleming was the fourth name on her pa¬ 
per, but she went there first, and was pleased with the 
place at once, because it looked so cool and inviting un¬ 
der the wealth of hop vines which covered one side of it. 

The day was warm, and Mrs. Fleming, in her clean 
purple calico gown, sat sewing on the door-steps, while 
a woman with a deep pasteboard bonnet on her head, 
concealing her face from view, was sweeping the gras3 
in the back yard. But she turned as she heard the gate 
open, and seeing Beatrice, came forward until she saw her 
mother ; then she withdrew, leaving Mrs. Fleming to con¬ 
fer with the stranger. 

She had rooms to let, she said ; did the lady wish 
them for herself? and she looked curiously at Beatrice, 
who was so different from the boarders who usually came 
to her, for her rooms were low and scantily furnished, 
and not at all like the apartments city people desired. 

Miss Belknap wanted board for herself and a friend 
w r ith two children ; two sleeping-rooms and a parlor 
would do nicely for them all, and she was willing to pay 
whatever it was worth. 

Mrs. Fleming readily guessed that money was no 
consideration with the lady, and as it was of much im¬ 
portance to her, she decided to ask the highest possible 
price at first, and then fall if necessary. After a mo¬ 
ment, during which she seemed to be thinking, she said ? 

“I don’t know but 1 can accommodate you with three 
rooms, though I do not often rent an extra parlor, and if 
I do so now my daughter Josephine must give up the 
room she occupies when she is here.” 

“Then she is not at home?” Beatrice said, feeling 
that she must know that fact before she engaged board, 
where the only attraction was Joseph in •, w a >. sac round, 
had only goo-- for a we -k or so to 0 A Ik i i \ w th a 
party of friends, and was expected daily. 

9* 



202 


m THE SUMMER. 


The price Darned for the three rooms, though high 
for Holburton, did not seem unreasonable to Beatrice, 
and the bargain was closed with the understanding that 
Beatrice was to take immediate possession. 

“It will be a change for Mrs. Morton ; a relief to 
Aunt Nancy ; a possible benefit to Everard, and an 
amusement to me,” Beatrice thought, as she hurried back 
to Bronson, where she found the Rev. Theodore him» 
self, handsomer, more elegant in appearance, because 
better dressed, than when she saw him last, and very 
glad to see her, as an old friend who was kind to his wife 
and children. 

To the Holburton plan he listened approvingly. It 
would do Mollie good, he said, for two sick people in 
one house were quite too many for the comfort of either. 
But Mollie demurred ; she could not sleep in new places 
unless everything were right, and she presumed there 
vere swarms of crickets and tree-toads, and possibly 
jull-frogs, there among the mountains, to make the 
night hideous. 

It would be impossible to portray the scorn and dis¬ 
gust which blazed in the black eyes of Mrs. Julia Hay' 
den, who was present, when Mollie uttered her protest 
against Holburton. 

“Crickets, and tree-toads, and bull-frogs, indeed! 
She’d like to see the bull-frog which could keep her 
awake, even if it sat on her pillow and croaked in her 
ear ; it was all nonsense, such fidgets. Just use your 
will and a little common sense, and you will sleep 
, through everything.” 

This was Mrs. Hayden’s theory, which made Mollie 
cry and Beatrice angry, and Theodore laugh. He 
had to stand between them all, and keep them from 
quarreling, and he did it admirably, and smoothed 
everything so nicely, and made the trip to Holburton 
seem so desirable, that Mollie began to want to go, 
especially as he assured her he could well afford it. 
as the church in Boston paid him liberally, and had 
just given him a hundred dollars to do with as he liked. 
Beatrice had intended to meet the expenses herself, but 
could not press the matter without hurting more than 
she did good. It was just possible that Mrs. Hayden 
might follow them with her husband, if good rooms and 


MJRS. FLEMING'S BOARDERS. 


203 


board could be found for her, for she had taken a great 
liking to Miss Belknap, who stood even higher in her 
estimation than Mrs. Sniffe, and whose acquaintance she 
readily saw would do her more real good in a social 
point of view. So it was finally arranged that Mollie 
and the children should go to Holburton for the summer, 
and word to that effect was forwarded to Mrs. Fleming, 
with instructions to have the rooms in readiness by the 
middle of July. 


CHAPTER XXY. 

mrs. Fleming’s boarders. 

was a lovely summer day when the party 
arrived at Holburton and were driven to the 
brown house on the common, where they 
found everything in readiness for them, and 
Mrs. Fleming and Agnes waiting to receive 
them. Josephine was not visible, for she had resolutely 
set her face against them. 

She did not want a lot of women in the house any 
way, she said ; they were a nuisance, and made as much 
again trouble as men. They were never satisfied with 
their board, were always in the kitchen washing out 
their pocket-handkerchiefs, heating flat-irons and making 
a muss generally. For her part, she liked to be free to 
do as she liked without the fear of being torn into shoe¬ 
strings by some meddling, jealous old woman. If they 
must have boarders, take gentlemen ; there were plenty 
who would be glad to come. She would rather have 
clerks, or even mechanics, than the fine lady they de« 
scribed and a sick woman with her brats, and blue as a 
whetstone undoubtedly, inasmuch as she was a mission¬ 
ary’s wife. She’d be wanting family prayers and a 
blessing at the table, and be horrified to know there were 
two packs of cards in the house, and that they were 
used, too ! 

This was Josephine’s opinion, but her mother had bei 









MRS. FLEMING'S BOARDERS. 


304 


way in spile of it, and went on with her preparations, 
while Josephine sulked, and declared her intention of 
avoiding them entirely, and never, in any way, coming 
in contact with them. Still, there was a consolation in 
the tact that the small room she was compelled to take 
was down stairs, and so far removed from the board* 
ers that they would not know how late she was out 
on the street with admirers, of which she had several, 
or how long they staid with her after she came in. 
Josephine liked the kind of life she was leading at 
present. No lady in town dressed better than she did, 
and though she knew that people commented upon it, 
and wondered where she got the money, and hinted at 
things which no real modest woman would like to have 
laid to her charge, she did not care, so long as she knew 
it was all right, and that some day everything would 
be explained, and she stand acquitted before the world, 
which criticised her unmercifully, but because there 
was no tangible proof against her, noticed her just the 
same as if there were no breath of suspicion attaching 
to her name. She would be noticed, and if she saw 
signs of rebellion in any quarter she fought it down inch 
by inch and rode triumphantly over the opinions of those 
who tried to slight her. No young lady in town could 
boast as many admirers as she, and she managed to keep 
them at her side even after they found there was no 
hope. Old Captain Sparks, the millionaire, had long 
known this, and yet, as the moth flutters around the can¬ 
dle, so he hovered around the young beauty, accepting 
the position of father instead of brother, and from time 
to time presenting his daughter with costly presents, 
which she accepted so sweetly and prettily because she 
knew it would hurt him if she refused. To the other 
lovers she was sister and friend, and she gave them a 
great deal of good advice, and made them believe they 
were much safer with her than they would be else¬ 
where. 

Only Dr. Matthewson knew her thoroughly, and him 
she never tried to deceive. And still, the doctor was 
more absolutely under her influence than any of the 
train who visited her constantly. But just now he was 
away on business , be called it, though Josephine knew 
that the business was gambling, that be.ng his only 


MRS. FLEMING'S boarders. 


206 


means of livelihood. A fortunate play, or series of 
piavs, had put a large sum of money into his hands, and 
he had gone on a sailing vessel to the West Indies, 
thinking to visit England before returning to America. 
Josephine was a little ennuyeed without the doctor, whom 
she preferred to any man living. And yet, could she 
have had him by giving up Everard she would not have 
done it, for though she had no love for her husband, she 
had a fancy for the money and position he could give 
her by and by, and for which she was patiently waiting. 
Had her life been less pleasant and exciting, or had 
Everard sent her less money, she might have rebelled 
against it, and taken steps which would have resulted in 
her learning the state of affairs at the Forrest House. 
But as it was she was content to wait and enjoy herself 
in her own way, which was to dress and flirt, and come 
and go at her pleasure, and be waited on at home as if 
she were some princess of the blood. 

And this was about the state of affairs when Beatrice 
reached the Fleming house with Mrs. Morton, who, con 
trary to her expectations, was pleased at once. 

“ I do believe I shall rest here and get well again, 
everything is so comfortable,” she said, as she lay down 
upon the chintz-covered lounge for a few moments 
before taking the cup of tea which was brought to 
her by Agnes, w r ho, in her clean calico dress, with her 
dark hair combed smoothly back, and a sad but peaceful 
expression on her white, tired face, enlisted Beatrice’s 
sympathies at once, for she saw from her manner that she 
was a mere household drudge, and resolved to stand her 
friend whatever might come. 

Agnes was very fond of children, and when slio had 
arranged the tray for Mrs. Morton, she turned to the 
little ones and tried to coax them to her side. Bunchie 
came at once, but Trixey held aloof, and, with her hands 
behind her, watched the woman curiously, and it would 
seem without a very complimentary verdict in her favor. 
Trixey was fond of bright, gay colors and elegant ap¬ 
parel/ Beatrice’s style suited her better than this faded, 
spiritless woman, whom she, nevertheless, regarded very 
intently, and at last startled with the question : 

“ How did you look when you were new ?” 

“ Oh a Trixey !” Mrs. Morton and Beatrice both ex- 


206 


MRS. FLEMING'S BOARDERS. 


claimed, in a breath, fearing lest Agnes’ feelings shoma 
be hurt, but she only laughed a hearty, merry laugh, 
which changed her face completely, and made it almost 
young and pretty, as she said : 

“ I don’t know how I looked, it was so very long ago ; 
but I love little girls like you, and my old black hands 
have made them so many pies and cakes, and paper dol¬ 
lies, and they shall make some for you, if you’ll let me 
kiss you.” 

Trixey was won by this, and when Agnes went back 
to the kitchen she was followed by both the children, 
who were intent upon the little cakes she had made that 
norning in expectation of their coming. 

Josephine had watched the arrival of the ladies 
through the half-closed shutters, deciding that Mrs. Mor- 
ton w r as a dow'dy country woman, and that Miss Bel¬ 
knap w 7 as very elegant even in her plain traveling dress, 
and that, perhaps, she was somebody whom it would be 
pancy to cultivate. But she would not present herself 
that afternoon ; she was tired, and wished to keep herself 
fresh for evening, when she expected a call from a young 
man from Albany, whose mother had taken rooms at the 
hotel for the summer, and whom she had met at a picnic 
the day before. 

The next day was Sunday, and though breakfast was 
served later than usual, Josephine w 7 as later still, and the 
meal w r as nearly half over when she entered the room, 
attired in a blue cambric gown, with gold pendants in 
her ears, and a bit of honeysuckle at her throat. There 
was a very sweet, apologetic expression on her face as 
she w r ent up to her mother and kissed her good morn¬ 
ing, saying, coaxingly : 

“ Late again, as usual, mamma, but you must excuse 
me. I was so sleepy then, with a graceful recognition 
of the strangers, she took her seat at the table by the 
side of Trixey, whom she patted on the head, saying : 
“ And how is the little girl, this morning ?” 

Mrs. Fleming was accustomed to all manner of moods 
and freaks in her daughter, but the kissing was some¬ 
thing new 7 , and surprised her a little, especially as there 
were no gentlemen present to witness the pretty, child¬ 
ish scene. She passed it off, however, naturally enough, 
and introducing her daughter to the ladies v mt on serv* 


MRS. FLEMING'S BOARDERS. 


207 


ing the breakfast. Agrees waited upon the table, and so 
there was no kiss for her, only a gracious nod and a 
“ good morning, sister,” as if this was their first meet¬ 
ing, when, in fact, Agnes had been in and out of Jose¬ 
phine’s room three or four times, carrying hot water, and 
towels, and soap. But Agnes was accustomed to such 
things and made no sign, except as a slight flush passed 
across her pale face, which was unobserved by Beatrice, 
who was giving all her attention to the young beauty, 
sipping her coffee so leisurely, and saying pretty things 
to Trixey. 

How beautiful she was, with those great dreamy blue 
eyes, those delicately chiseled features, and that dazzling 
complexion, which Bee thought at first must be artificial, 
it was so pure, and white, and smooth. But she was 
mistaken, for Josephine’s complexion had never known 
powder or paste, or wash of any kind. It was very bril¬ 
liant and fresh, and she looked so young, and innocent, 
and child-like that Beatrice found it hard to believe 
there was aught of guile or deceit in her. Everard must 
have become morbidly sensitive to any faults she might 
have, and Bee’s thoughts were at once busy with what 
she meant to do for this estranged couple. There must 
be much of good in her. Surely that face and those 
eyes, which looked so confidingly at you, could not cover 
a bad heart. Weak, and vain, and faulty she might be, 
but not bad ; not treacherous and unwomanly, as Everard 
believed, and Beatrice was so glad she had come there 
to see and judge for herself. Every action was perfectly 
lady-like, every movement graceful, while the voice was 
soft and low, and well-bred in its tone ; and during the 
few moments they talked together after breakfast, 
Beatrice felt herself fascinated as she had never been 
before by any human being. As she was tired, and had 
a slight headache, she did not go to church that morn¬ 
ing, but saw Josephine leave the house, and watched her 
out of sight with feelings of wonder and perplexity. 
Could this be the woman whom Everard regarded with 
so much disgust ? the Joe Fleming whom she had 
thought so detestable ? Nor was her wonder at all di¬ 
minished when, that afternoon, she found Josephine in 
the garden, seated under a tree with Bunchie in her lap 
and Trixey at her side, listening intently while she told 


MBS. FLEMING'S BOARDERS. 




them the story of Moses in the bulrushes. They had 
heard it before, but it gained new power and interest 
when told in Josephine’s dramatic way, and they hung 
on every word, and when it was done begged her for an¬ 
other. Surely, here was more of the angel than the 
fiend, and Beatrice, too, sat down, charmed in spite of 
herself with the girl she had expected to despise. 

“ She must be good, and Everard is surely mistaken,” 
she thought, and her admiration was at its height when 
Josephine finished her stories and began to talk to her. 
Mrs. Fleming had received an impression that Miss Bel 
knap was from New York, and Josephine began to ques¬ 
tion her of that city, asking if she had always lived 
there. 

“ I was born there,” Beatrice replied, “ but I was ed¬ 
ucated in Paris, and my home is really in Rothsay, a lit¬ 
tle town in southern Ohio.” 

At the mention of Rothsay Josephine started, and 
there was an increase of color in her face, but otherwise 
she was very calm, and her voice was perfectly natural 
as she repeated the word Rothsay, evidently trying to 
recall something connected with that place. At last she 
succeeded, and said, “ Rothsay—Rothsay, in Ohio. Why, 
that is where Mr. Forrest lives. Mr. J. Everard Forrest, 
Jr. He boarded with mamma two or three years ago. 
He was in college at Amherst. Probably you know 
him,” and the blue eyes looked very innocently at 
Beatrice, who, warned by the perfect acting to be cau¬ 
tious and guarded, replied, “ Oh, yes, I know Everard 
Forrest. His mother was a distant relative of mine. 
She is dead. Did you know?” 

“ I think T heard so. Everard was very fond of his 
mother,” Josephine said ; then, after a pause she added, 
“ Judge Forrest is very wealthy, and very aristocratic, 
Isn’t he ?” 

“He was always called so, and the Forrest property 
is said to be immense,” Beatrice replied, quieting her 
conscience with the fact that, so far as the judge was 
concerned, she had put him in the past tense, and spoken 
of what he was once rather than of what he was at 
present, but Josephine paid no attention to tenses, and 
had no suspicion whatever of the truth. 

She was really a good deal startled and shaken, men' 


MRS. FLEMING'S BOARDERS. 


209 


tally, notwithstanding the calmness of her demeanor. 
Here was a person lrom Rothsay who knew Everard 
Forrest, and who might be of great service to her in 
the future, and it behooved her to be on her best be¬ 
havior. 

“ Is Everard married yet ?” she asked after a mo¬ 
ment. 

. “ Married !’ ; Beatrice repeated, and she felt the color 
rising in her face. “ Why, he has not his profession yet, 
but is studying very hard in his father’s office.” 

“Ah, yes, I remember, he intended to be a lawyer. 1 
liked him very much, he was so pleasant and gentle¬ 
manly,” Josephine said, and there was a drooping of the 
heavy lashes over her blue eyes, as if with regret for the 
past, when she knew and liked Everard Forrest. 

“ But is there no one to whom he is particularly at¬ 
tentive ?” she asked. “ He used to be very fond of the 
girls, and there must be some one in Rothsay suitable 
for him, or is his father so proud that he would object to 
everybody ?” 

Beatrice knew perfectly well what Josephine meant, 
and answered that she had heard the judge was very 
particular, and would resent a marriage which he thought 
beneath his son, “ but if the woman was good, and true, 
and pure, and did her best, I think it would all be well 
in time,” she added, as an encouragement to this girl 
in whom she was trying to believe ; and Josephine con¬ 
tinued: 

“ He used to speak of a little girl, Rosamond, I think, 
was the name. She must be well grown by this time, 
la she there now ?” 

“ You mean Rossie Hastings, his adopted sister. Yes, 
she is there still, and a very nice, womanly little thing. 
She is sixteen, 1 believe, though she seems to me 
younger,” Beatrice said, and the impression left on Jose¬ 
phine’s mind of Rossie was of a child, in whom Ever¬ 
ard could not be greatly interested except ir a brotherly 
way. 

She had made all the inquiries she cared to make just 
then, lest she should excite suspicion in Beatrice, and 
was meditating a retreat, when the sour d of rapid wheels 

reached them, and a moment after a tall, slender young 
man, not over twenty, came down the walk flourishing 


210 


MRS. FLEMING'S BOARDERS. 


his little cane and showing plainly the half-fledged boy^ 
who was beginning to feel all the independence anq 
superiority of a man. Bowing very low to Beatrice, to 
whom he was introduced as Mr. Gerard from Albany, he 
told Josephine he had come to ask her to drive after his 
fast horse. ‘“You were at church all the morning, and 
deserve a little recreation/’ he said, as he saw signs of 
refusal in Josey, who, sure that Miss Belknap would not 
accept a like invitation felt that she, too, must refuse; so 
she said very sweetly and a little reprovingly: 

“ Thank you, Mr. Gerard, but I do not often ride on 
Sunday. Some other day I shall be happy to go with 
you, for I dote on fast horses, but now you must excuse 
me.” 

Young Gerard was surprised, for he had not expected 
to find conscientious scruples in the girl who. the previous 
night, had played euchre with him until half-past eleven, 
and then stood another half hour at the gate, laughing 
and flirting wiih him, though she had met him but once 
before. 

He was not accustomed to be thwarted, and bo 
showed that he was annoyed, and answered loftily : 

“ Certainly, do as you think best. If you won’t ride 
with me, I must find somebody who will. I wish you 
good-afternoon, ladies.” 

Touching his hat very politely he walked away ; but 
Josephine could not let him go in this mood. He was 
her latest conquest, and she arose and followed him, and 
walked with him to the gate, and said to him apologet¬ 
ically : 

“ I want to go awfully, but it will never do with a 
missionary’s family in the house.” 

“ Bother take the missionaries,” he said. “I wanted 
to show you how fast Dido can trot.” 

“Yes, I know ; but there are other days than Sunday, 
and there are lots of girls aching to go with you to-day,” 
Josephine said, as she fastened a little more securely the 
bouquet in his button-hole, and let her hands rest longer 
on his coat-sleeve than was necessary. 

“ But I shan’t take ’em. I shall wait for you,” he 
answered, quite soothed and mollified. 

Then he bade her good-by, and drove olf, while 
Josephine returned to Beatrice and said, laughingly : 


MRS. FLEMING'S BOARDERS. 


211 


“ Wh:rX bores boys of a certain age are, and how they 
always fasten upon a girl older than themselves ! This 
Gerard cannot be over twenty. He reminds me a little 
in his dress of Everard Forrest when he first came here, 
so fastidious and elegant, as if he had just stepped from 
a bandbox.” 

“ He is very different from that now,” Beatrice re¬ 
plied, rousing up at once in Everard’s defense. “Of 
course he can never look like anything but a gentleman, 
but he wears his coats and boots and hats until they are 
positively shabby. It would almost seem as if he were 
hoarding up money for some particular purpose, he is so 
cmeful about expense. He neither smokes, nor chews, 
nor drinks, and it is said of him that he has not a, single 
bad habit; his wife, should he ever have one, ought to 
be very pro mi of him.” 

Beatrice was very eloquent and earnest in her praises 
of Everard, and watched closely the effect on Josephine 
There certainly was a different expression on her face as 
she listened to this high encomium on her husband, whose 
economies she well knew were practiced for her, and 
the: e was something like a throb of gratitude or affection 
in her heart when she heard that the money she had 
supposed was given him by his father was earned or 
saved by himself, that she might be daintily clothed. 

“I am delighted with this good account of him, and 
so will mamma be,” she said ; “ he must have changed 
so much, for he was very extravagant and reckless when 
we knew him, but I liked him exceedingly.” 

Again there was the sound of wheels stopping before 
the gate, and excusing herself, Josephine hurried away 
to meet the second gallant who had come to take her to 
ride. Of course she could not go, and so the young man 
staid with her, and Walter Gerard drove back that way, 
and seeing her in the parlor tied his horse to the fence and 
came sauntering in with the air of one sure of a welcome. 

Josephine did not appear at the tea-table, but Bea¬ 
trice saw Agnes taking a tray into the parlor, and knew 
the trio were served in there, and felt greatly shocked 
and disgusted when she heard the clock strike twelve be¬ 
fore the sound of suppressed voices and laughter ceased 
in the parlor, and the two buggies were driven rapidly 


MS 


JOSEPHINE'S CONFIDENCE. 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

JOSEPHINE’S CONFIDENCE. 

HE next day Josephine wrote Everard the 
first real letter she had sent him for many 
weeks. Heretofore she had merely acknowi 
edged his drafts made payable to her mother 
but now she filled an entire sheet- and called 
him h qy dear husband, and told him of Miss Belknap’s 
presence in the house, and what she had said of his 
habits and strict economy. 

“I know it is all for me,” she wrote, “ and I felt like 
crying when she w T as talking about you. I am so glad 
she told me, for it has made me resolve to be worthy of 
you and t he position I am one day to fill as your wife. 
When will that be, Everard ? Must we wait forever ? 
Sometimes I get desperate, and am tempted to start at 
once for Rothsay, and, facing your father, tell him the 
truth, and brave the storm which I suppose would 
follow. But then I know you would be angry at such a 
roceeding, and so 1 give it up, and go on waiting 
patiently, for I do wish to please you, and am glad this 
Miss Belknap is here, as I am sure of her friendship 
when the time of trial comes. She is very sweet and 
lovely, aud I wonder you did not prefer her to your un¬ 
worthy but loving Josey.” 

Beatrice also wrote to Everard that day, and told 
him where she was, and why, and said of Josephine, 
“there must be good in her, or she could not seem so 
sweet, and amiable, and affectionate. A little vain she 
maybe, and fond of attention, and why not? She can¬ 
not look in the glass and not know how beautiful she is. 
And her voice is so soft, and low, and musical, and he? 
manners so lady-like. You see I am more than half in 
love with her, and I am quite disposed to advise a re¬ 
cognition on your part of her claim upon you. Of course 
3 shall not betray you. That is not my business here. I 
came to see what this girl is, whose life is joined with 
yours. I find her quite up to the average of women, 








J OSEPIILYE'S COEEIDmCE. 


13 


and think it your saler course to acknowledge her, and 
not leave her subject to the temptations which must 
necessarily beset a pretty woman like her, in tne shape of 
admiration and attention from every marriageable man 
in town. It is your safer way, Everard, for remember 
there is a bar bet ween you and any other face which 
may look to you inexpressibly fair and sweet, and all 
the sweeter and fairer because possession is impossible.” 

These letters reached Everard the same evening, and 
he found them in ins office on his return from the For¬ 
rest House, where lie had sat with Rossie an hour on the 
piazza, with the moonlight falling on her face and 
softening the brilliancy of her great black eyes. How 
beautiful those eyes were to him now, and how modestly 
and confidingly they looked up occasionally in his face, 
and drooped beneath the long lashes which rested on 
the fair cheeks. She was so sweet and loving, this pure, 
fresh young girl ; and her face and eyes haunted Ever¬ 
ard all the way down the avenue and the long street to 
his office, where he found his letters,—one from Beatrice, 
one from Josephine, and this last he saw first, recoiling 
from it as from a serpent’s touch, and remembering with 
a bitter pain the face seen in the moonlight, and the 
pressure of the hand he had held in his at parting. Then 
he took Bee’s letter, and turned it over, and saw it was 
postmarked at Holburton, and with a start of fear and 
apprehension tore it open and read it eagerly. 

“But I shall never do it,” he said, as he read Bee’s 
id vice with regard to recognizing Josephine. “The 
goodness is not there ; and so Bee will discover if she 
stops there long enough.” 

Then, as he finished her letter, he felt as if all the 
blood in his body were rushing to his head, for he 
guessed what she meant by “ that other face, so inex¬ 
pressibly fair and sweet.” It was Rossie’s, and he ground 
his teeth together as he thought of the bar which made 
it sinful for him to look too often upon that face, fast 
budding into rare beauty, lest he should find it too sweet 
and fair for his own peace of mind. And then he told 
himself that Rosamond was only his sister ; his ward, in 
whom he must necessarily have an unusual interest. 
Beatrice was too fastidious, and did not trust enough to 


2M 


JOSEPHINE'S CONFIDENCE. 


his good sense. He was not in love with Rosamond, 
nor in danger of becoming so. 

Thus the young man reasoned, while he tore Josey’g 
letter into shreds, which he tossed into the waste-basket 
He did not believe in her or intend to answer it, for 
whenever he thought of her now it was as he saw her 
last, at midnight in the car, sleeping on Dr. Matthe wson’s 
arm. He wrote to Beatrice, however, within a few 
days, expressing his surprise at what she had done,—and 
telling her that any interference between Josephine and 
himself was useless, and that if she staid long in Holbur- 
ton she would probably change her mind with regard to 
the young lady. 

And in this he was right, for before his letter reached 
Holburton, Beatrice and Mrs. Morton both had learned 
that the voice, so soft and flute-like and well-bred when 
it addressed themselves, had another ring when alone in 
the kitchen with Agnes, who drudged from morning 
till night, that the unusually large household might be 
kept up. There were more boarders now in the house, 
for Mrs. Julia Hayden and husband had come to Hol¬ 
burton, hoping a change would benefit Mr. Hayden, who 
liked the quiet, pleasant town, and the pure air from the 
hills, which was not quite so bracing as that which blew 
down from tne mountains around Bronson. The Hay¬ 
dens occupied the parlor below, greatly to the annoyance 
of Miss Josey, who was thus compelled to receive her 
numerous calls either in the dining-room or on the back 
piazza, or on the horse-block near the gate. 

It was not unusual for Josey to receive three admirers 
at a t .me, and she managed so admirably that she kept 
them all amiable and civil, though each hated the other 
cordially, and wondered why he would persist in coming 
where he was not wanted. Night after night Mrs. Mor¬ 
ton and Mr. Hayden were kept awake till after midnight 
by the low hum of voices and occasional bursts of sup¬ 
pressed laughter which came from the vicinity of the 
horse-block, and when Mrs. Morton complained of it in 
the presence of Josephine, that young lady was very 
sorry, and presumed it was some of the hired girls in 
town, who had a great way of hanging over gates with 
their lovers, and sitting upon horse-blocks into all hour* 
of the night. 


JOSEPHINE'S CONFIDENCE. 


215 


But Mrs. Julia was not deceived. Her great black 
eyes read the girl aright, and when she saw a female 
figure steal cautiously up the walk into the house, and 
heard the footsteps of two or three individuals going down 
the road, she guessed who the “ hired girls ” were, and 
Josephine suspected that she did, and removed her tryst- 
ing place from the horse-block to the rear of the garden, 
where she was out of ear-shot of the “ old muffs,” as she 
styled Mrs. Morton and Mrs. Hayden. And here she 
received her friends, as she called them,—and laughed, 
and flirted, and played with them, but was very careful 
not to overstep certain bounds of propriety, and thus 
give Everard an excuse on which to base an action for 
divorce, should he ever bring himself to consider such an 
act, which she doubted. He was too proud for that, and 
would rather live with and dislike her, than repudiate 
her openly, and bring a stain upon the Forrest name. It 
was impossible for her to understand his real feelings 
toward her. Indifferent he was, of course, and sorry, no 
doubt, for the tie which bound them; but she was so 
thoroughly convinced of her own charms and power to 
fascinate, that she had little fear of winning him back to 
something like allegiance when she once had him under 
her influence again. He could not resist her; no man 
could, except the old judge; and secure in this belief she 
went on her way, while Beatrice watched her narrowly, 
and began at last to believe there was no real good in 
her. 

“ The most shameless flirt I ever saw, with claws like 
a cat,” Mrs. Hayden said of her,—“ why, she has actually 
tried her power on Harry, and asked him so insinuat¬ 
ingly and pityingly if he really thought oatmeal agreed 
with him as well as a juicy steak or mutton-chop.” 

Bee laughed merrily at the idea of Josey ? s casting her 
eyes upon poor, shriveled, dyspeptic Harry Hayden, 
whom, to do her justice, she did pity, for the cold baths 
he was compelled to take every morning, and the rigid 
diet on which he was kept. That he lacked brain force, 
as his wife asserted, she did not doubt, or he would 
never have submitted as meekly as he did, with the ste¬ 
reotyped phrase, “Julie knows best,” but she pitied him 
just the same, and occasionally conveyed to him on the 
siy hot cup? of beef-tea or mutton-broth, and once 


JOSEPHINE S CONFIDENCE. 


316 


coaxed him to drink lager-beer, but Mrs. Julia found it 
out by the culprit’s breath, and disliked Josev worse 
chan ever. 

It was now five weeks since Beatrice first came to 
Holhurton, and as Mrs. Morton did not seem to im¬ 
prove, she was thinking of finding another place for her, 
when Josephine came to her one morning as she was 
Gitting alone with her work, and, taking a seat beside her, 
began to talk, of herself and the life she was leading. 

“ I am of no use to any one,” she said, “ for both 
mother and Agnes are afraid I shall soil my hands or 
burn my face. I am tired of this kind of life. I want 
to see the world and have larger experiences ; and for¬ 
tunately I have an opportunity to do so. When I was 
at the sea-side I met a widow-lady, a Mrs. Arnold, who 
is rich and an invalid. She was kind enough to pretend 
to like me, and I think she did, for I have received a 
letter from her, asking me to go as a companion with 
her to Europe, she defraying all the expenses, of course, 
and leaving me nothing to do but to make myself agree¬ 
able to her, and enjoy what I see. How, would you go or 
not ?” 

“ I think I would,” Beatrice replied, for it seemed to 
her as if this going to Europe would somehow be the 
severing link between Everard and Josephine. Some¬ 
thing would happen to bring on the crisis which must 
come sooner or later. 

“I would go, most certainly,” she said again, and then 
she asked some questions concerning Mrs. Arnold, whose 
letter Josey showed to her. Evidently she was not a 
woman of great discernment or culture, but she was sin¬ 
cere in her wish to take Josephine abroad, and disposed 
to be very generous with her. 

“ She will be gone a year at least, and possibly two, 
aad I can see so much in that time, I am quite dizzy with 
anticipation,” Josephine said, while Beatrice entered 
heart and soul into the project, which was soon known 
to the entire household. That night young Gerard from 
Albany called on Josephine as usual, and hearing of the 
proposed trip to Europe offered himself to her, and cried 
like a baby when she gave him her final “ no,” and made 
him understand that she meant it. But she held his 
hand in hers, and there was one of her tears on his boy- 


JOSEPHINE'$ CONFIDENCE. 


m 

iah Lace when at last he said good-night and walked 
away, somewhat soothed and comforted with the thought 
that he was to be her friend of friends, the one held as 
the dearest and best in her memory when she was far 
ov8r the sea. 

1 he news of the intended journey made Everard 
wild with delight, for, with the ocean between them, he 
felt that he should almost be free again ; and he sent her 
a hundred dollars, and told her he hoped she would 
enjoy herself, and then, intoxicated with what seemed 
to him like his freedom, went up to see Rosamond, and 
staid with her until the clock was striking ten, and 
Mrs. Markham came into the room to break up the tete- 
a-tete. 

It was the last day of August that the Nova Zembla 
sailed out of the harbor of Boston with Josephine on 
board, her fair hands waving kisses and adieux to the 
two men on the shore, watching her so intently,—young 
Gerard and old Captain Sparks, who had followed her 
to the very last, each vieing with the other in the size 
and cost of the bouquets, which filled one entire half of 
a table in the dining saloon, and stamped as somebody 
the beautiful girl who paraded them rather ostentatiously 
before her fellow-passengers. 

For two days they adorned the table at which she 
sat, and filled the saloon with perfume, and were ex¬ 
amined and talked about, and she was pointed out as 
that young lady who had so many large and elegant 
bouquets; and then, the third day out, when their beauty 
and perfume were gone, they were thrown overboard by 
the cabin-boy, and a great wave came and carried them 
far out to sea, while Josey lay in her berth limp, wretched 
and helpless, with no thought of flowers, or Gerard, or 
Captain Sparks, but witn a feeling of genuine longing 
for the mother and Agnes, whose care and ministrations 
missed so much in her miserable condition 


216 


EVENTS OF ONE YEAR 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

EVENTS OF ONE YEAR A T THE FORREST HOUSE 

was near the last of October when Bee re- 
turned to Rothsay, where Everard greeted 
her gladly as one who could understand, and 
sympathize with him. It had come to him 
at last like a shock that he loved Rosamond 
Hastings as he had never loved Josephine, even in the 
days of his wildest infatuation ; and far different from 
that first feverish, unhealthy passion of his boyhood was 
this mightier love of his maturer manhood, which threat¬ 
ened at last to master him so completely that he deter¬ 
mined at last to go away from Rothsay for a month, and, 
amid the wilds of California and the rocky dells of Ore¬ 
gon try to forget the girl whom to love was sin. 

To Beatrice he confessed everything, and rebelled 
hotly against the bar which kept him from his love. 

He had thought of divorce, he said. He could easily 
obtain one under the circumstances, but he was sure 
Rossie would never believe in any divorce w*hich was not 
sanctioned by the Bible. He had assumed a case similar 
to his own, which he pretended was pending in the 
court, and warmly espousing the husband’s cause, had 
asked Rosamond if she did not think it perfectly right 
for the man to marry again. 

And she had answered decidedly : 

“I should despise him and the woman who married 
him. I abominate these divorces so easily obtained. It 
is wicked, and God will never forgive it.” 

After this there was nothing for Everard to do but 
to take up his burden and carry it away with him to the 
Far West, hoping to leave it there. But he did not, and 
he came back to Rothsay to find Rossie sweeter, faireT 
than evei, and so unfeignedly glad to see him that for 
an hour he gave himself up to the happiness of the 
moment, and defying both right and wrong, said things 
which deepened the bloom on Rossie’s cheeks, and 
brought to her eyes that new light which is so beautiful 







AT THE FORREST HOUSE. 


216 


in its dawning, and which no one can mistake who is 
skilled in its signs. 

He did not tell her he loved her ; but he told her how 
he had missed her, and how she alone had brought him 
back sooner than he meant to come. And with a shyness 
which sat so prettily on her, and a drooping of the eye¬ 
lids, she listened to him, and though she said but little 
the mischief was done, and never again would her eyes 
meet his as frankly and readily as before. Something in 
the tone of his voice and the unwonted tenderness of his 
manner kindled a fire in that young heart which many 
waters could not extinguish, and to Rossie it came with 
a thrill, half fearful, half ecstatic, that she loved Everard 
Forrest, not as a sister loves a brother or friend loves 
friend, but as a true, good woman loves the one who to 
her is the only man in all the world. But could she have 
followed him back to his room she would scarcely have 
known the white-faced, haggard man whom the dawn 
found with his head resting upon the table, where it had 
lain most of the wight, while he fought the demon trying 
so hard to conquer him. He must not love Rosamond 
Hastings ; he must not let her love him ; and to prevent 
it he must tell her the whole truth, and this was what he 
was trying to make up his mind to do. 

Possibly his resolution to confess the whole to Rosa¬ 
mond was in a measure prompted by a sudden fear which 
had come upon him lest the knowledge of his marriage 
should reach her through some other channel. On his 
return from Oregon, and before he went to the Forrest 
House, he had found several letters which had come dur¬ 
ing his absence, and which had not been forwarded. 
One was from Josephine, who was still abroad and per 
fectly happy, if her word was to be believed. She had 
found Mrs. Arnold everything that was kind, and gene¬ 
rous, and considerate ; had made many delightful ac¬ 
quaintances ; had learned to speak both German and 
French, and had come across Dr. Matthewson, who was 
at the same hotel with herself, the Victoria, in Dresden. 

This letter did not particularly affect Everard either 
way. Dresden was very far off, and Josephine might re¬ 
main abroad another year, and into that time so much 
happiness might be crowded that he would take the good 
offered him, and not cross the river of difficilty until he 


220 


EVENTS OF ONE YEAR 


fairly reached it. But on his return from the Forrest 
House he found two more letters on his desk, one post¬ 
marked at Dresden, the other at Holburton, and this he 
opened first. It was from Agnes, and had been some time 
on the road, and told him that Mrs. Fleming had died 
suddenly, after an illness of two days only, and Agnes 
was left alone. There was still a mortgage on the house, 
she said, and after that was paid, and the few debts they 
were owing, there would be but little left for her, and 
this little she must, of course, divide with Josephine. 
She offered no complaint, nor asked for any help. She 
said she could take care of herself, either as housekeeper, 
cook, or nurse, and, on the whole, she seemed to be in a 
very resigned and cheerful state of mind for a person 
left so entirely alone. The other letter proved to be 
from a Cincinnati acquaintance, with whom he mid once 
been at school, aud who had recently married and gone 
abroad, and was in Dresden, at the Victoria Hotel, where, 
he said, there were many pleasant Americans, both from 
Boston and New York, and Everard felt morally sure 
that the pleasant people from Boston were Mrs. Arnold 
and Josephine. And his friend, Phil. Evarts, was just 
the man to be attracted by Josey, even if he had a hun¬ 
dred wives, and Josephine was sure to meet him more 
than half-way, and find out first that he was from Cincin 
nati, and then that he had been in Rothsay, and knew 
Judge Forrest’s family, and then,—a cold sweat broke 
out all over Everard’s face as he thought, what then f 
while something whispered to him, “Then you will reap 
the fruit of the deception practiced so long, and you de¬ 
serve it, too.” 

Everard knew he deserved it, but when one is reaping 
the whirlwiud, I do not think it is any comfort to know 
that he has sowed the wind, or this harvest would never 
have been. It certainly did not help Everard, but rather 
added to the torments he endured as he thought of Jose¬ 
phine, enraged and infuriated, swooping down upon him, 
bristling all over with injured innocence , and making for 
herself a strong party, as she was sure to do. But worse 
than ail would be the utter loss of Rossie, for she woidd 
be lost to him forever, and possibly turn against him for 
his duplicity, and that he could not bear. 

“ I’ll tell her to-morrow, so help me Heaven!” he 


AT THE FORREST HOUSE. 


221 


said, as he laid his throbbing head upon his writings 
table and tried to think how he should commence, and 
what she would say. 

He knew how she would look,—not scornfully and 
angrily upon him,—but so sorry, so disappointed, and 
that would hurt him worse than her contempt. How 
fair and sweet she seemed to him, as he went over all 
the past as connected with her, remembering, first, the 
quaint, old-fashioned child he had teased so unmercifully, 
and of whom he had made a v<wy slave ; then the girl of 
fifteen, whose honest eyes had looked straight into hi& 
without a shadow of shame or consciousness, as she 
asked to be his wife ; and, lastly, the Rossie of to-day, 
the Rossie of long dresses and pure womanhood, who 
was so dear to him that to have had her for his own for 
one short, blessed year he felt that he would give the 
rest of his life. But that could not be. She could 
never be his, even were he free from the hated tie, as he 
could be so easily. In her single-heartedness and truth 
she would never recognize as valid any separation save 
that which death might make, and this he dared not 
wish for, lest to his other sins that of murder should be 
added. He must tell her, and she would forgive him, 
even while she banished him from her presence ; but 
after she knew it, whose opinion was worth more to him 
than that of the whole world, he could bear whatever 
else might come. But how could he tell her? Ver¬ 
bally ? and so see the surprise, and disappointment, and 
pain which would succeed each other so rapidly in those 
clear, innocent eyes which faithfully mirrored what she 
felt. He knew there would be pain, for as he loved her 
so he felt that she cared or could care for him, if only it 
were right for her to do so, and selfish as he was, it hurt 
him cruelly that she must suffer through his fault. But 
it must be, and, at last, concluding that he never could 
sit face to face with her while he confessed his secret, 
he decided to write it out and send it to her, and thee 
wait a few days before going to see the effect. He 
made this resolve just as the autumnal morning shone 
full into his room, and he heard across the common the 
bell from his boarding house summoning him to break¬ 
fast. But he could not eat, and after a vain effort at 
swallowing a little coffee, he went back to his office, 


222 


EVENTS OV ONE YEAR 


where, to his utter amazement and discomfiture, he 
found Rosamond herself seated in his chair and sinning 
brightly upon him as he came in. 

When he was with her the night before she had for¬ 
gotten to speak to him of a certain matter of business 
which must be attended to that day, and immediately 
after breakfast, which was always early at the Forrest 
House, she had walked down to the office, and telling 
the boy in attendance that he need not wait until Mr. 
Forrest’s return, she sent him to his breakfast, and was 
there alone when Everard came in. 

“ Oh, Rossie, Rossie,” he gasped, as if the sight of her 
unnerved him entirely, “ why did you come here this 
morning ?” 

She did not tell him why she came, for she forgot hei 
errand entirely, in her alarm at his white, haggard face, 
and the strangeness of his manner. 

“ Oh, Mr. Everard !” she cried, for she called him 
“ Mr. Everard” still, as she had done when a child. “ You 
are sick. What is the matter? Sit down and let me 
do something for you. Are you faint, or what is it?” 
and, talking to him ail the time, she made him sit down 
in the chair she vacated, and brought him some water, 
which he refused, and then, standing beside him, laid her 
soft, cool hand upon his forehead, and asked if the pain 
was there. 

At the touch of those hands Everard felt that he was 
losing all his self-command. Except as he had held them 
a moment in his own when he met her, or said good-by, 
he had not felt those dainty fingers on his flesh since the 
weeks of his sickness after his mother’s death, when 
Rossie had been his nurse, and smoothed his aching brow 
as she was doing now. Then her hands had a strange 
power to soothe and quiet him, but now they made him 
wild. He could not bear it, and, pushing her almost 
rudely from him, he exclaimed: “ Don’t, Rossie! I can’t 
bear that you should touch me.” 

There were tears in Rossie’s eyes at being so repulsed 
and for an instant her cheeks grew scarlet with resent¬ 
ment, but before she could speak, overcome by an im¬ 
pulse he could not resist, Everard gathered her swiftly ir, 
his arms, and, kissing her passionately, said : 

“ Forgive me, Rossie. I did not mean to be rude, 


AT THE FORREST HOUSE. 


828 


but wh) did you come here this morning to tempt me. 
I was going to write and tell you what I ought to have 
told you long ago, and the sight of you makes me such a 
coward. Rossie, my darling • I will call you so once, 
though it’s wrong, it’s wicked,—remember that. I am 
not what I seem. I have deceived you all these years 
since father died, and before, too,—long before. You 
cannot guess what a wretch I am.” 

It was a long time since Rossie had thought of Joe 
Fleming , with whom she believed Everard had broken 
altogether ; but she remembered him now, and, at once 
attributing Everard’s trouble to that source, she said, in 
her old, child-like way : 

“It’s Joe Fleming again, Mr. Everard, and I hoped 
you were done with him forever.” 

She was very pale, and her eyes had a startled look, 
for the sudden caress and the words “ my darling,” had 
shaken her nerves, and roused in her a tumult of joy and 
dread of she scarcely knew what; but she looked stead¬ 
ily at Everard, who answered her bitterly : 

“Yes, it is Jos Fleming,—always Joe Fleming,—and 
I am going to tell you about it; but, Rossie, you must 
promise not to hate me, or I never can tell you. Bee 
knows and does not hate me. Do you promise, Rossie?” 

“Yes, I promise, and I’ll help you if I can,’’Rossie said, 
without the slightest suspicion of the nature of the trouble. 

She never suspected anything. The shrewd, far-see¬ 
ing ones, who scent evil from afar, would say of her 
that she was neither deep nor quick, and possibly she 
was not. Wholly guileless herself, she never looked for 
wrong until it was thrust in her face, and so was easily 
deceived by what seemed to be good. She certainly 
suspected no evil in Everard, and was anxious to hear 
the story which he would have told her had it not been 
for an interruption in the shape of Lawyer Russell, who 
came suddenly into the office, bringing with him a 
stranger who wished to consult with both the old lawyer 
and the young. That, of course, broke up the confer¬ 
ence, and Rosamond was compelled to retire, thinking 
more of the hot kiss which she could still feel upon her 
forehead, and the words “ my darling,” as spoken by 
Everard, than of the story he had to tell. 

And all that day she flitted about the house, warbling 


E VENTS OF ONE YEAR 


2U 


snatches oi song, and occasionally repeating to herself 
“ my darling,” as Everard had said it to her. If indeed 
she were his darling, then nothing should separate them 
from each other. She did not care for his past misdeeds, 
—or for Joe Fleming. That was in the past. She be 
lieved in Everard as he was now, and loved him, too. 
She acknowledged that to herself, and her face burned 
with blushes as she did so. And, looking back over the 
past, she could not remember a time when she did not 
love him, or rather worship him, as the one hero in the 
world worthy of her worship. And now?—Rossie could 
not give expression to what she felt now, or analyze the 
great happiness dawning upon her, with the belief that 
as she loved Everard Forrest, so was she loved in return. 
She was very beautiful with this new light shining over 
her face, and very beautiful without it. It was now two 
years since she went unabashed to Everard and asked to 
be his wife. Then she was fifteen and a-half, and a mere 
child, so far as knowledge of the w r orld was concerned, 
and in some respects she was a child still, though she 
was seventeen and had budded into a most lovely type 
of womanhood. Her features were not as regular as 
Bee’s, nor her complexion as soft and waxen ; but it was 
very fresh and bright and clear, and there was something 
inexpressibly sweet and attractive in her face and the ex¬ 
pression of her eyes, while her rippling hair was wound in 
masses about her well-shaped head, adding somewhat to 
her apparent height and giving her a more womanly ap¬ 
pearance than when she wore it loosely in her neck. If 
Rossie thought herself pretty, it was never apparent in 
her manner. Indeed, she never seemed to think of her¬ 
self at all, though, as the day of which I am writing 
drew to a close, she did spend more time than usual at 
her toilet, and when it was finished felt tolerably satis¬ 
fied with the image reflected by her mirror, and was sure 
that Everard would be suited, too. lie would come that 
night, of course. There was nothing else for him to do 
after the events of the morning. 

But Everard did not come, and about noon of the 
next day she received a few lines from him saying that 
a business matter, of which Lawyer Russell and the 
stranger with him were the harbingers, would take him 
for a week or more, to southern Indiana. He had not 


SOMETHING DOES HAPPEN. 


225 


time to say good by in person, but he would write to 
her from Dighton, and he hoped to find her well on his 
return. 

That was all. Not an allusion to the confession he 
was going to make,—not a sign that he had held her for 
a moment in his arms and kissed her passionately, while 
he called her his darling, He was going away on busi¬ 
ness and would write to her. Nothing could be briefer 
or more informal, though he called her his dear Rossie. 
And Rossie, whose faith was not easily shaken, felt that 
she was dear to him even though he disappointed her. 
She would hold to that while he was absent, and though 
her face was not quite as bright and joyous as the night 
before, there was upon it an expression of happiness and 
content which made watchful Mrs. Markham think 
that, as she expressed it to herself, “ something had hap¬ 
pened.” 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

SOMETHING DOES HAPPEN. 

T had rained all day in Dresden,—a steady, 
persistent rain, which kept the guests of the 
Hotel Victoria in-doors, and made them so 
tired, and uncomfortable, and restless that 
by night every shadow of reserve was swept 
away, and they were ready to talk to any one who would 
answer them in their own tongue. Conspicuous among 
the guests assembled in the parlor was Miss Fleming,— 
“Miss Josephine Fleming, Boston, U. S. A.,” she was 
registered, and she passed for one of those Bostonians 
who, whether deservedly or not, get the reputation 
abroad of being very exclusive, and proud, and unap¬ 
proachable. Just now this character suited Josephine, 
for she found that she was more talked about when she 
was reserved and dignified than when she was forward 
and flippant ; so, though the } 7 had been at the Victoria 
gome weeks, she had made but few acquaintances, and 
these among the English and the most aristocratic of the 










SOMETHING DOES HAPPEN 


*26 

Americans. And Josephine had never been so beautifa! 
as she was now. And she had the satisfaction of know¬ 
ing that she was always the most attractive woman in 
every company, and the one most sought after. Of her 
poverty she made no secret, and did not try to conceal 
the fact that she was Mrs. Arnold’s companion. But 
she had seen better days, of course, before papa died and 
left his affairs so involved that they lost everything, and 
mamma was compelled to take a few boarders to eke out 
their income. 

This was her story, which took well when tcld by 
herself, with sweet pathos in her voice and a drooping 
of her long lashes over her lovely blue eyes. Every one 
of her acquaintances of any account in America had been 
stepping-stones in Europe, where she met people who 
knew the Gerards, and John Hayden, and Miss Belknap, 
who was her very heaviest card, the one she played most 
frequently, and with the best success. The New Yorkers 
all knew Beatrice, and were inclined to be very gracious 
to her frie »id. Occasionally she had come across some 
graduate from Amherst, whom she had met before, but 
never till the rainy day with which this chapter opens 
had she seen any one from the vicinity of Rothsay, or 
who knew her husband personally. She was in the 
habit of looking over the list of arrivals, and had seen 
the names of “ Mr. and Mrs. Philip Evarts, Cincinnati, 
U. S. A.,” and had readily singled out the new-comers at 
table d'hote , divining at once that the lady was a bride ; 
but no words had passed between them until the even¬ 
ing of the rainy day ; then Josephine entered the parlor 
faultlessly gotten up, and looking very sweet and lovely 
in her dark-blue silk and velvet jacket, with her golden 
hair caught up with an ivory comb. Nothing could be 
prettier than she was, and Phil Evarts, who, as Everard 
had said, was just the man to be attracted by such a 
woman as Josephine, and whose wife was sick with a 
headache in her room, managed to get near the beauty, 
who took a seat apart from the others, and met his ad¬ 
vance with a swift glance of her dreamy eyes, which 
made his heart beat faster than a man’s heart ought to 
beat when his wife is up-stairs with the headache. 

It was her business to speak first, and she said, very 
modestly : 


SOMETHING DOES HAPPEN ,. 


221 


“ Exouse me, sir, but do you know if there has been 
a mail since lunch ?” 

“ I don’t,” he replied, “ but I will inquire. I am just 
going to the office. What name shall I ask for ?” 

She told him, and during the few minutes he was 
gone he found out who Miss Fleming from Boston was, 
and all about her that the English-speaking clerk knew. 
But there was no letter for her, for which he was very 
sorry. She was sorry, too ; she did so want to hea* 
from home and sister. She did not say mamma , for she 
knew her mother was dead, and had known it for a week, 
and kept it to herself until she could decide whether to 
wear black or not, and so shut herself out from any 
amusements they might have in Paris, where they were 
going next. 

Naturally the two began to talk of America, and 
when Mr. Evarts spoke of Cincinnati as his home, she 
said: 

“ I have a friend who was once at school there. 
Everard Forrest, of Rothsay, do you know him ?” 

She had no idea that he did, and was astonished at 
the vehemence with which he responded : 

“ Ned Forrest, of Rothsay ! Of course I know him. 
We were at school together. He’s the best fellow in the 
world. And he is your friend, too ?” 

“Yes,” Josey answered, beginning at once to calcu¬ 
late how much knowledge of Everard she would confess 
to. “ I knew him when he was in college at Amherst. 
We lived in Holburton then, a little town over the line 
in New York, and he was sometimes there, but I have 
not seen him for a long time. I hope he is well.” 

“ He was the last time I saw him, which was three or 
four months ago, perhaps more,” Mr. Evarts replied. 
“ He was in the city for a day, and I saw him just a mo¬ 
ment. He is working like a dog ; sticks to his business 
like a burr, which is so different from what I thought 
he’d do, and he so rich, too.” 

“Is he?” Josephine asked; and Evarts replied: 

“ Why, yes; his father must have been worth half a 
million, at least, and Ned got the whole, I suppose. 
J’here are no other heirs, unless something was given to 
that girl who lived in the family. Rosamond Hastings 
was the name, I think.” 


32528 


SOMETHING DOES HAPPEN. 


“ Is Ills father dead?” Josephine asked; and in her 
voice there was a sharp ring which even stupid Phil 
Evarts detected and wondered at. 

“Dead? Yes,” he replied. “He has been dead I 
should say nearly, if not quite, two years.” 

Josephine was for a moment speechless. Never in 
her life had she received so great a shock. That Judge 
Forrest should have been dead two years and she in 
ignorance of it seemed impossible, and her fhst feeling 
after she began to rally a little was one of incredulity 
and she asked: 

“Are you not mistaken ?” 

“No, Pm not,” Mr. Evarts replied. “I saw Everard 
in Covington a few weeks after his father’s death, and 
talked to him of the sickness, which was apoplexy or 
something of that sort. Anyway, it was sudden, and 
Ned looked as if he hadn’t a friend in the world. I did 
not suppose he eared so much for his father, who, 1 
always thought, was a cross old tyrant. I used to 
visit at Forrest House occasionally years ago, when we 
were boys, but have not been there since the judge’s 
death. Ned does not often come to Cincinnati, and as I 
have been gone most of the time for the last two years, 
I have heard but little of him.” 

“ How long, did you say, has his father been dead ?” 
Josephine asked ; and Mr. Evarts replied : 

“It must be two years in November, or there¬ 
abouts.” 

“ And this Rosamond Hastings who lives there, how 
old is she, and is he going to marry her?” Josephine 
asked next; while Evarts thought to himself: 

“Jealous, I do believe,” but he answered her : 

“ Miss Hastings must be seventeen or eighteen, and 
when I saw her, live or six years ago, was not so very 
handsome.” 

“ Yes, thank you,” Josev said, and as she just then saw 
Mrs. Arnold coming into the salon, she bowed to her new 
acquaintance, and walked away, with such a tumult in 
her bosom as she had never before experienced. 

It would take her a little time to recover herself and 
decide what to do. She must have leisure for reflection; 
and she took it that night in her room, and sat up the en¬ 
tire night thinking over the events of the last tw< years, 


BOMETmSG DOES EADPEl Y. 


22 ? 


£» conuected with Everard, and coming at last to the 
conclusion that he was a scoundrel , whom it washer duty 
as well as pleasure to punish by going to America at 
once and claiming him as her husband. 

In the first days of her sudden bereavement, Agnes 
kind heart had gone out with a great yearning for her 
young sister, to whom she had at once written of their 
mutual loss, saying how lonely she was, and how she 
hoped they would henceforth be more to each other than 
they ever had been. And Josephine had been touched 
and softened, and had written very kindly to Agnes, and 
had cried several times in secret for the dead mother 
she would never see again, but whose death she did not 
then see fit to announce to Mrs. Arnold ; but she would 
do so now, and make it a pretext for going home at once. 
Nothing should keep her from wreaking swift vengeance 
on the man who had deliberately deceived her for two 
years, and who, she had no doubt, was faithless to her in 
feeling, if not in act. Of course there was a woman 
concerned in the matter, and that woman was probably 
Rossie Hastings, who, Mr. Evarts said, was still living at 
the Forrest House, whither she meant to go in her own 
person as Mrs. J. E. Forrest, and so rout the enemy, 
and establish her own claims as a much-injured wife. 
She did not mean to be violent or harsh, only grieved, 
and hurt, and forgiving, and she had no doubt that in 
time she should be the most popular woman in Rothsay, 
not even excepting Beatrice, whose silence with regard 
to the judge’s death she could not understand, inasmuch 
as she could have had no reason for keeping it a secret. 

It may seem strange that as a friend of Everara’s 
Phil Evarts had not heard of the judge’s will, but for 
the last two or three years he had led a wandering kind 
of life, and spent most of his time in Rio Janeiro, and 
Everard had never spoken of his affairs on the few occa¬ 
sions they had met since the judge’s death, he was in 
total ignorance of the manner in which the judge had 
disposed of his property. Had he known it, and told 
Josephine, she might have acted differently, and hesitated 
& little before she gave up a situation of perfect ease and 
comparative luxury for the sake of a husband whom she 
did not love, and who had nothing for her support ex¬ 
cept his own earnings. But she did not know this, and 


2*0 


SOMETHING DOES HAPPEN. 


she was eager to confront him and the jade, as she stig¬ 
matized Rosamond, and she packed some of her clothes 
that night that she might start at once. 

Fortunately for her plans the next morning's mail 
from Paris brought her another letter from Agnes, who 
thought she might be anxious to know what she had de¬ 
cided to do, for the present, at least, until they could 
consult together. But Josephine cared very little what 
Agnes did. She was going to the Forrest House, and 
she was glad that Dr. Matthewson, who had been with 
her for a time at the hotel, had started for Italy only a 
few days before. He might have opposed her plan, and 
she knew from experience that it was hard to resist the 
influence he had over her. Utterly reckless and unprin¬ 
cipled, he seemed'really to like this woman, whom he 
thoroughly understood, and in whose nature he recog¬ 
nized something which responded to his own. Two or 
three times he had talked openly to her of a divorce, and 
had hinted at a glorious life in Italy or wherever she 
chose to go. But Josephine was too shrewd to consider 
that for a moment. Dr. Matthewson lived only by his 
wits, or to put it in plainer terms, by gambling and spec¬ 
ulation and intrigue. To-day he was rich, indulging in 
every possible luxury and extravagance, and to-morrow 
he was poor and unable to pay even his board ; and much 
as she liked him she had no fancy to share his style of 
living. She preferred rather to be the hated wife of 
Everard Forrest and the mistress of his house ; so she 
took Agnes’s letter to Mrs. Arnold, and with a great 
show of feeling told her her mother was dead, and her 
sister Aggie left all alone, and wanting her so badly that 
she felt it her imperative duty to start at once for 
America. 

“ I am sorry, of course, to leave you,” she said, “ but 
you have so many acquaintances now, and your health is 
so much better, that you will do very nicely without me, 
I am sure, and I have long felt that my position was 
merely a sinecure. I am only an unnecessary expense.” 

Mrs. Arnold knew that to some extent this was true. 
Josephine was rather an expensive luxury, and she had 
more than once seen in her signs of selfishness and 
duplicity which shocked and displeased her. But the 
girl had been uniformly kind and attentive to her, and 


SOMETHING DOES HAPPEN. 


28 j 

she was loth to part with her, and tried to persuade hei 
to wait till spring. But Josephine was determined, and 
seeing this Mrs. Arnold ceased to oppose her, and gen¬ 
erously gave her two hundred dollars for her expenses 
home; and Josephine took it, and smiled sweetly through 
her tears, and kissed her friend gushingly, and then hur¬ 
ried away to complete her preparations. 

The next day she left Dresden for Paris, where she 
staid a week, while she selected a most becoming ward¬ 
robe in black, and was delighted to see what a pretty, 
appealing woman she was in her mourning, and how fair 
and pure her skin showed through her long crape vail, 
and how blue and pathetic her eyes looked, especially 
when she managed to bring a tear into them. 

Of course she was noticed, and commented upon, 
and admired on shipboard, and when it was known why 
she was going home alone, and why she was in such 
deep mourning, she had everybody’s sympathies, and 
was much sought after and petted. 

She was certainly a very fair picture to contemplate, 
and the male portion of her fellow travelers indulged in 
that pastime often, and anticipated her every movement, 
and vied with each other in taking her chair to the most 
sheltered and comfortable place, and adjusting her 
wraps, and drawing her shawl a little closer around her 
neck, and helping her below whenever she was at ad 
dizzy, as she frequently was ; and when at last the Ville 
de Paris came into port, and she stood on shore, fright¬ 
ened, bewildered, and so much afraid of those dreadful 
custom-house officers , though she had nothing dutiable 
except a Madonna bought for mamma before she knew 
she was dead, at least ten gentlemen stood by her, reas¬ 
suring her and promising to see her through, and suc¬ 
ceeding so well that not one of her four big trunks was 
molested, and the captain himself .helped her into the 
carriage which was to take her to the Harlem depot. 
With all tUe gallantry of a Frenchman he saw her com¬ 
fortably adjusted, and squeezing her hand a little, lifted 
his hat politely, and wishing her bon voyage , left her to 
drive away toward the new life which was to be so dif¬ 
ferent from the old. 


MRS. J. E. FORREST. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

MRS. J. E. FORREST. 

VERARD had been gone nearly two weeks in 
stead of one, and Rosamond had not heard 
from him except through Mr. Russell, who 
told her that the business, wdiich had refer¬ 
ence to sundry infringements on patents 
and some missing deeds, was occupying him longer 
than he had supposed it would, as it required much 
research and a good deal of travel; “but he ought to be 
home now, very soon,” he said to her one rainy morn¬ 
ing in November, when he came to see her on business 
and found her sick in her room with a sore throat and 
severe cold. Rossie had been very lonely with both 
Everard and Beatrice away,—for the latter had been in 
New York since September, and at last accounts was on 
her way to Florida with Mollie Morton, who wished to 
try the effect of a milder climate than Vermont, and as 
Mr. Morton could not leave his church in Boston, which 
had now become a permanancy, Bee had consented to 
accompany her, so Rossie was alone, and in a measure 
defenseless, on the afternoon when Mrs. Markham an¬ 
nounced that the hack which ran to and from the depot 
had turned into the avenue and was coming to the house, 
and that it contained two ladies and at least three 
trunks, if not four. 

“Ladies and trunks coming here?” Rossie ex¬ 
claimed, starting up in bed and trying to listen to the 
voices, which were soon heard speaking together at the 
sid^ door, where the hack had stopped. 

But she could distinguish nothing, and Mrs. Markham 
went to ascertain who the strangers were. Half-way 
down the stairs she met old Aunt Axie, who held in her 
hand a black-bordered card on which was engraved the 
name, “Mrs. J. E. Forrest.” 

“ The young lady done gin me this to fotch to M : ss 
Hastings,” Axie said, as she handed the card to Mrs. 
Markham, who twice repeated the name “Mbs J. JS 
Forrest.” 





MllS. J. K FORREST. 


283 


“ Who can she be? Had the judge any neat tela 
fcives ?” she asked Axie, who replied : 

“ Not’s I knows on. I never hearn tell of any J. E. 
Forrests, but Mars’r Everard.” 

“ Where is the lady ?” was Mrs. Markham’s next 
question, and Axie replied : 

“In the ’ception room, kind of shivrin’ and shakin’ 
as if she war cold. I reckon she’s come to stay a spell, 
case the four big trunks is all in a pile in de side entry, 
and she acts as ef she think she belong here, for she ask 
sharp like, ‘ Ain’t thar no lire you can take me to ? I’m 
chilled through.’ 

“ ‘Thar’s a fire in Miss Rossie’s room,’ I said, ‘ but 
she’s sick.’ 

“‘Miss who?’ she said, sharper still. ‘Is it Miss 
Hastings you mean ? Take her my card and say I’d 
like to see her if possible,’ and that’s every blessed thing 
I know ’bout ’em, only the old one looks queer and scart 
like, and nothin’ in the house for dinner but a bit of 
bacon,” and having told all she knew of the visitors, 
Axie went on her way to report the same to Rosamond, 
and confer with her about the dinner and the rooms the 
guests were to occupy, while Mrs. Markham went down 
to the reception-room to meet Mrs. J. E. Forrest. 

Josephine had greatly surprised her sister by walking 
in upon her unannounced one morning a few days pre¬ 
viously, and had still further astonished her by saying 
that judge Forrest was dead, and that she had come 
home in order to go at once to Rothsay and her husband. 
She laid great stress on that word, and gave Agnes to 
understand that he had written to her of his father’s 
death, and that it was at his request she had crossed the 
sea to join him. 

“ But won’t he come here for you ? Seems to me 
that would have a better look,” Agnes said, and her sister 
replied: 

“ He is quite too busy to waste his time that way, 
for we can go alone; he knows I am accustomed to trav¬ 
eling. We will start at once, I am so anxious to be there. 
We can shut up the house for the present, until matters 
are adjusted, when you or I can come back and see to 
the things.” 

Could Agnes have had her choice she would have 


234 


MRS. J. E. FORREST. 


prefen ed remaining where she was, for she dreaded 
change of any kind. But go she must, for her presence 
would add weight and respectability to Josephine, who 
wa 3 very kind to her, and made the leaving Holburton as 
easy as possible. To a few of her old friends Josephine 
told the secret of her marriage, showing her certificate, 
and saying, now her father-in-law was dead there was 
nothing in the way of publishing the marriage to the 
world, and that she was going to her husband. 

Of course all Holburton was excited, some believing 
the story, others discrediting it, but all remembering the 
play and the mock marriage which had seemed so solemn 
and real. But Josephine was not popular, and few if 
any regrets were sent after her when she started for 
the Forrest House, which she reached on the chill No¬ 
vember day, when everything was looking its very worst. 

Even the grounds had a bare, gray look, but they 
were very spacious and large, and Josephine felt a throb 
of pride as she rode up the avenue, looking eagerly ou* 
at the great, square, old-fashioned building, which, 
though massive, and stately, and pretentious, was not 
quite what she had expected to find. There was about 
it a shut-up, deserted air, which made her ask the hack- 
man if there was any one at home, or why the blinds 
were all closed except in the wing. 

The hackman was a negro who had once been in 
Judge Forrest’s employ, and he replied : 

“ Miss Rossie’s dar whar you see de shutters open, 
but de rest she keep closed sense old marster died.” 

There was something like a flash of indignation in 
Josephine’s eyes as she thought how soon she would 
change the administration of the household, and make 
Miss Rossie know her place. 

They had reached the side entrance by this time, and 
Josephine waited in her seat an instant in the hope that 
her truant lord might come himself to see who his visitors 
were. In that case she meant to be forgiving, and put 
her arms around his neck, and kiss him, and whisper in 
his ear : “ I know everything, but I come in peace, not 
in war. Let us be friends, and do you leave the expla¬ 
nation to me.” 

She had decided upon this plan since leaving Holbur¬ 
ton, for the nearer she drew to Rothsay the more she 


MRS. J. E. FORREST. 


285 


began to dread and fear the man who she knew had out¬ 
lived all love and respect for her. But only Aunt Axie’s 
broad, black face looked out into the rain, and beamed a 
smile on Luke, the driver, who was a distant relative. 

Springing lightly from the carriage Josey ran up the 
steps into the hall, where she stood while Agnes joined 
her, and Luke deposited the heavy trunks and claimed 
his customary fee, and a little more on the plea of “ so 
many big boxes to tote.” 

But Josephine refused him sharply, and then followed 
Aunt Axie into the cold reception-room, where no fire 
had been made that day, for Rossie had never abandoned 
her determination to use as little as possible of the For¬ 
rest money, and nothing superfluous was expended either 
in fuel, or eatables, or dress. So far as her own income, 
—a matter of one hundred and forty dollars or there¬ 
abouts,—was concerned, she was very generous and free ; 
but when it came to Everard’s money, as she called it, 
her economies were almost painful at times, and wrung 
many a remonstrance from old Axie, the cook. 

With a shiver and a quick, curious glance around the 
cheerless room, Josephine turned to Aunt Axie and 
said : 

“ Is Mr. Forrest at home,—Mr. Everard Forrest ?” 

“ No, miss. He done went away quite a spell ago, 
but Miss Rossie’s ’spectin’ him every day. He don’t live 
here, though, when he’s home ; he stay mostly in de 
town.” 

Josephine did not understand her, and continued : 

“ He will come here, I suppose, as soon as he returns ?” 

“ Yes, miss, he’s sure to do dat,” and Axie nodded 
knowingly. 

Of course, she had no suspicion who this lady was, 
walking about the room and examining the furniture with 
a critical and not favorable eye, and asking, at last, if 
there was no fire where she could warm herself after her 
cold ride ? 

On being told there was a fire in Miss Rossie’s room, 
she took from her purse one of the cards she had had en¬ 
graved in Paris, and bidding Axie take it to Miss Hast¬ 
ings, sat down to await the result. To Agnes she said, 
in something of her old, dictatorial tone : 

“ Pray, don’t look so nervous and frightened, as il 


S86 


MRS . J. E. FORREST. 


we were a pair of burglars. It is my husbau l’s house, 
and I have a right here.” 

“ Yes, I know,” faltered Agnes ; “ but it looks as if 
they did not expect you,—as if he did not knc w you; 
were coming, or he would have been home, and it 5 s ail. 
so dreary; I wish I was back in Holburton,” and poor* 
homesick Agnes began to cry softly. 

But Josephine bade her keep quiet. 

“ You let ine do the talking,” she said. “ You need 
not speak, or if you have to you must assent to what you 
hear me say, even if it is not, all quite true.” 

Josephine had expected Rosamond herself, and had 
taken a very pretty attitude, and even laid off her hat so 
as to show her golden hair, which, in the dampness, was 
one mass of waves aud curls and little rings about her 
forehead. She meant to astonish and dazzle the girl 
whom she suspected as her rival, and who she imagined 
to be plain and unprepossessing, and when she heard a 
step outside she drew herself up a little, but had no in¬ 
tention of rising. She should assert her superiority at 
once, and sit while she received Miss Hastings rather 
than be revived by her. How then was she disappointed 
and chagrined when, instead of Rossie, there appeared 
on the threshold a middle-aged woman, who showed that 
she was every whit a lady, and whose manner, as she 
bowed to the blonde beauty, brought her to her feet im¬ 
mediately. 

“Mrs. Forrest?” Mrs. Markham said, interrogatively, 
consulting the card she held, and then glancing at Jose¬ 
phine, who answered her: 

“ Yes, Mrs. J. E. Forrest. My husband, it seems, :e 
not here to receive me and explain matters, for which I 
am very sorry.” 

Even then Mrs. Markham had no suspicion of the 
truth. The husband referred to was, of course, some 
distant relative, who was to have been there in advance 
of his wife, and she replied: 

“No, there has been no gentleman here, but that 
does not matter, except as it may be awkward for you. 
Miss Hastings will make you very welcome, though she 
is sick to-day and in bed. Your husband is a relative of 
Mr. Everard Forrest, 1 nresume.” 

“ A relative ! My husband is Mr. Everard Forrest,” 


MRS. J. E. FORREST. 


m 

Josephine said. “ We were married four years ago last 
summer, and at his request, I have kept it a secret ever 
since. But my sister,” and she nodded toward Agnes, 
“ saw me married, and I have my marriage certificate in 
my bag Agnes, give me my satchel, please,” and she 
turned again to Agnes, who knew now that they were 
there unexpected and unknown, and her face Was very 
white as she brought the satchel for Josephine to open. 

Mrs. Markham was confounded and incredulous, and 
she showed it in her face as she dropped into a chair and 
stared wonderingly at her visitor, who, from a little box 
fastened with lock and key, abstracted a paper which 
she handed her to read. 

“I know just how I must Beem to you,” Josephine 
said. “You think me an adventuress, an impostor, but 
I am neither. I am Everard Forrest’s lawful wife, as 
this certificate will show you.” 

Mrs. Markham did not reply, for she was reading 
that, at Holburton, New York, on the evening of the 
17th of July, 18—, Mr. James E. Forrest, of Rothsay, 
Ohio, ■was united in matrimony to Miss Josephine 
Fleming, by the Rev. Mr. Matthewson. There could be 
no mistake apparently, unless this paper was a forgery 
and the woman a lunatic, and still Mrs. Markham could 
not believe it. She had a great respect and liking for 
Everard, and held him as a'model young man, who would 
never stoop to deception like this, and then,—there was 
Rossie ! and the kind-hearted woman felt a pang of pity 
and a throb of indignation as she thought how Rossie had 
been wronged and duped if this thing were true, and this 
woman confronting her so calmly and unflinchingly 
were really Everard’s wife. 

“I cannot believe it. I will not believe it,” she 
thought ; and as composedly as it was possible for her to 
do, she said : 

“ This is a strange story you tell me, and if it is true 
it bears very heavily against Mr. Forrest, who has never 
been suspected of being a married man.” 

“ I knew it; I guessed as much. Oh, Josey, why did 
you come before he sent for you ? Let’s go away. You 
are not wanted here !” Agnes exclaimed, as she came 
swiftly to her sister’s side and laid her hard cn he7 
arm. 


238 


MRS. J. E. FORREST. 


But Josephine shook it off fiercely, and in a tone she 
knew so well how to assume, said commandingly, as if 
speaking to a child: 

€ ‘ Mind your business, Agnes, and let me attend to 
my own affairs. I have kept quiet long enough; four 
years of neglect would try the patience of any woman, 
and if he does not choose to recognize me as his wife I 
shall compel him to do so. You saw me married; yon 
know I am telling the truth. Speak, Agnes, did you not 
see me married to Everard Forrest ?” 

“ Yes, I did, may God forgive me,” was Agnes’ meek 
reply, but still Mrs. Markham could not believe her, and 
was silent while Josephine went on: 

“ I do not wish for any scene, or talk, or excitement. 
I am Everard Forrest’s wife, and I wish only to be known 
as such. I hoped to find him here, for then it would be 
his duty to explain, not mine. Do I understand he is 
not in town, or not at home? Possibly he is in his office, 
in which case I will seek him there.” 

“ He is not in town,” Mrs. Markham said ; “ he went 
to Indiana on business more than a week ago, and has 
not yet returned. He does not live here when he is at 
home ; he boards in the village. Miss Hastings lives 
here ; this is her house ; perhaps you do not know that 
Judge Forrest died, and-” 

“Yes, I do,” Josephine interrupted her, beginning to 
get irritated and lose her self-command as she saw that 
she was not believed, “ I do know Judge Forrest is dead, 
and has been for two years or more; but I learned it ac¬ 
cidentally, and as he was the only obstacle in the way of 

recognition as Everard’s wife, I came at once, as I 
had a right, to my husband’s house.” 

“ But this is not his house,” Mrs. Markham replied. 
“ It belongs to Miss Hastings. Everything belongs to 
her. Judge Forrest left it to her by will. Didn’t you 
kno^w that ?” 

“Ho, I did not,” Josephine answered, and for a mo¬ 
ment she turned deathly white as she saw the ground 
slipping from under her feet. “Left everything to Miss 
Hastings and disinherited his son ! Why was that ?” she 
asked. 

“ I don’t know why he did it,” Mrs. Markham replied, 
“ I know only that he did, and it is strange Mr, Forrest 



MRS. J. E. FORREST. 


239 


did not write that to you, as you must, of course, have 
been in correspondence with him.” 

She spoke sarcastically, and Josephine knew she was 
looked upon with distrust, notwithstanding the certifi¬ 
cate, which she had thought would silence all doubt; and 
that, added to what she had heard of the disposition of 
the Forrest property, provoked her to wrath, and her 
eyes, usually so dreamy and blue, emitted sparks of an¬ 
ger, and seemed to turn a kind of whitish gray as she 
burst out: 

“ My correspondence with my husband has not been 
very frequent or full. I told you I did not hear from 
him of his father’s death ; he never hinted at such a 
thing, and how was I to know that he was disinherited ? 
If I had it might have made a difference, and I should 
have thought twice before crossing the sea and giving 
up a life I enjoyed, for the sake of coming here to find 
myself suspected as an impostor, which, under the cir¬ 
cumstances, is natural perhaps, and to find also that my 
husband is a pauper, and the home I had confidently 
expected would one day be mine given to a stranger.” 

Josephine was almost crying when she finished this 
imprudent speech, in which she betrayed that all she 
really cared for was the home and the money which shf 
had expected to find. Mrs. Markham saw this, and 
did not tend to increase her respect for the lady, though 
she did pity her, if, as she affirmed, she were really 
Everard’s wife, for with her knowledge of human na¬ 
ture, she guessed that if there really had been a marriage 
it was a hasty thing, repented of almost as soon as done, 
by Everard at least. But she did not know what to say 
until Josephine, who had recovered herself, continued : 
“ I should like to see Miss Hastings, if possible, and 
apologize for my intrusion into her house, and then I 
will go to the hotel and await my husband’s return 
then she answered quickly; “ Miss Hastings, I am sure, 
will say you are welcome to remain here as long as you 
like, but I do not think she will see you to-day, and if 
you will excuse me, I will go to her now, as she must be 
anxious to know who her visitors are.” 

With this Mrs. Markham arose, and bowing to 
Josephine left the room, and went directly to Rosa¬ 
mond. 


uo 


HOW ROSSIE BORE THE NEWS. 


CHAPTER XXX, 

HOW ROSSIE BORE THE NEWS. 

HE did not bear it well at all, although she was 
in some degree prepared for it by the card 
which Axie brought her. 

“Mrs. J. E. Forrest,—Mrs. J. E. For¬ 
rest,” she repeated as she examined the card, 
while something undefinable, like the shadow of coming 
evil, began to stir her heart. “ Who can she be, and 
where did she come from ? You say she has a maid ?” 

“Yes, or suffin’ like dat,—a quar-lookin’ woman, who 
has a lame hand. I noticed the way she slung the lady’s 
satchel over it, and it hung slimpsey like.” 

“ How does the lady look, and what did she say ? 
Tell me everything,” Rosamond said; and Axie, who be¬ 
gan to have a suspicion that the lady was not altogether 
welcome, replied: 

“ She done squabble fust thing wid the driver, who 
ax more for fetchin’ and liftin’ her four big trunks, an’ 
she hold up her gown and walk as ef the groun’ wasn’t 
good enough for her, an’ she looked round de room kind 
o’ sniffin’ like, wid her nose turned up a bit as she axed 
me was thar no tire. But my, she be very hansom’ and 
no mistake. All in black, with such nice skin and pretty 
eyes, wid dem great long lashes, like Miss Beatrice.” 

Rossie could deny herself everything, but she was 
never indifferent to the comfort of others, and though 
she could not h^lp feeling that this woman, who called 
herself Mrs. J. E. Forrest, would in some way work her 
harm, she could understand just how cold and cheerless 
the house must seem to her on that rainy day; and she 
ordered Axie to build fires in both the rooms below, as 
well as in the chamber where Everard occasionally spent 
a night, and which was the only guest-room she kept 
in order. There was also a consultation on the impor¬ 
tant subject of dinner, and then Rossie was left alono 
for a few moments to puzzle her brain as to who this 
woman could be, and wonder why her heart should feel 





ROW MOSSIE BORE THE NEWS. 


241 


so like lead, and her pulse beat so rapidly. She did not 
have long to wait for a solution of the mystery before 
Mrs. Markham came in, showing at once that she was 
agitated and distressed. 

“ What is it, Mrs. Markham ? Is she any relation to 
Mr. Everard ?” Rossie asked eagerly. 

It would be wrong to keep her in suspense a moment 
longer than was necessary, and going up to her, Mrs. 
Markham replied: 

“ She says she is Everard’s wife ; and I have seen the 
certificate. They were married more than four years 
ago, before his mother died, and she,—oh, Rossie, my 
child, my child, don’t give way like that; it may—-it 
must be false,” she added, in alarm, as she saw the 
death-like pallor which spread over Rossie’s face, and 
the look of bitter pain and horror which leaped into her 
eyes, while the quivering lips whispered : 

“ Everard’s wife ? No, no, no !” 

“ Don’t, Rossie,—don’t I” Mrs. Markham said again, 
as she passed her arm around the girl, whose head droop¬ 
ed upon her shoulder, in a hopeless kind of way, and 
who said : “You saw the certificate? What was the 
name? Was it-” 

“Fleming,—Josephine Fleming, of Ilolburton,” Mrs. 
Markham replied, and with a shiver Rossie drew herself 
away from Mrs. Markham’s arms, and turning her face 
to the wall, said : “ Yes, I know. I understand it all. 

She is his wife. She is Joe Fleming.” 

A^ter that she neither spoke nor moved, and when 
Mrs. Markham, alarmed at her silence, bent down to 
look at her, she found that she had fainted. The 
shock had proved too great foi Rossie, whose mind, at 
the mention of Josephine Fleming, had with lightning 
rapidity gathered all the tangled threads of the past, 
and comprehended what had been so mysterious at 
times in Everard’s behavior. He was married ,—hastily, 
no doubt, but still married ; and Joe Fleming was his 
wife, and he had never told her, but suffered her to 
believe that he loved her, just as she knew now that 
she loved him. It was a bitter humiliation, and for 
an instant there gathered round her so thick a horror 
and blackness that she fancied herself dying ; but it 
was only a faint, and she lay so white and rigid that 

11 



242 


HOW ROSSIE BORE THE NEWS. 


Mrs. Markham summoned Aunt Axie from the dining 
room, where she was making preparations for kindling 
a fire in the grate. 

“Be quiet,” Mrs. Markham said to her as she came 
up the stairs. “ Miss Rossie has fainted, but don’t let 
those people know it ; and bring me some hot water 
for her feet, quick.” 

Axie obeyed, wondering to herself why her young 
mistress should faint, when she never knew her to do 
such a thing before, and with her ready wit connect¬ 
ing it in some way with the strangers whom Mrs. 
Markham had designated as “ those people,” and w T hom 
the old negress directly set down as “ no ’count folks.” 

It was some time before Rossie came back to con¬ 
sciousness, and when she did her first words were : 

“ Where is she ? Where is Everard’s wife ? Don’t 
let her come in here ; I could not bear it now.” 

“Everard’s wife! Mars’r Everard’s wife!” Axie 
repeated, tossing her turbaned head and rolling up 
her eyes in astonishment. “ In de deah Lord’s name, 
what do de chile mean ? Dat ain’t Mars’r Everard’s 
wife?” and she turned to Mrs. Markham, w T ho, now 
that Rossie had betrayed what she would have kept 
until Everard came to confirm or deny the tale, replied : 

“She says she is; but we must wait until Mr. Forrest 
comes before we admit it. So don’t go talking outside.” 

“Catch me talkin’,” was Axie’s rejoinder. “It’s a 
lie. Mars’r Everard hain’t got no wife. I should of 
knowed it if he had. Don’t you b’lieve it, honey,” and 
she laid her hard black hand caressingly on the head of 
the girl whom she had long since singled out as Everard’s 
future wife, watching shrewdly the growing intimacy 
between the two young people, and knowing better than 
they did just when the so-called brother meiged into the 
lover, and she would not for a moment believe in another 
wife, and a Secret one at that. “No, honey,” she con¬ 
tinued, “ don’t you b’lieve it. Mars’r Everard hain’t got 
no wife, and never will have, but you.” 

“Yes, Aunt Axie,” Rossie said, “this woman tells 
the truth. She is his wife, and Everard ought to come 
home. We must telegraph at once. He is in Dightoc 

Mrs. Markham accordingly wrote on a slip of paper: 


MRS. FORREST'S P0LI07. 


248 


‘To J. E. Forrest, Dighton :—Come immediately, 

4 S. Markham.” 

And Axie’s granddaughter Lois, who lived in the 
house, was commissioned to take it to the office. A fire 
had been kindled by this time in the chamber Josephine 
was to occupy, and she was there with Agnes, and had 
rung for warm water, which Lois took up to her before 
going on her errand. As the child was leaving the room 
Josephine said to her: “Is there a paper published in 
town ?” 

“ Yes’m, the Rothsay Star” was the reply. 

44 When does it come out ?” was the next question, 
and Lois said : 

44 Saturday,—to-morrow.” 

u Very well. I wish you to take a notice to the office 
of the Star for me to-night, and I will give you a 
quarter.” 

Twenty-five cents seemed a fortune to the little negro 
girl, who was greatly impressed with the beauty of the 
lady, and who replied: 

44 Yes, miss, I’ll do ’em. I’s gwine to the village 
directly with a telegraph to Mars’r Everard, and I’ll take 
yourn same time.” 

So, when, a little later, she started for the telegraph 
office, she bore with her to the Rothsay Star the fol¬ 
lowing : 

44 Married. —In Holburton, N. Y., July 17, 18—, by 
the Rev. John Matthewson, James Everard Forrest, of 
Rothsay, Ohio, and Miss Josephine Fleming, of Hol¬ 
burton.” 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

mrs. forrest’s policy. 

HEN Aunt Axie was called so suddenly by 
Mrs. Markham, she was kindling the fire in 
the dining-room, which adjoined the room 
where Josephine sat shivering with cold, and 
feeling like anything but a happy wife just 
come to her husband’s ancestral halls. Tired with her 





244 


MRS. FORREST'S POLICY. 


rapid journey, and disappointed and shocked by what 
she had heard from Mrs. Markham of the judge’s will, 
Josey was nearer giving way to a hearty cry than she 
had been before in a long time. It had been far better 
to have staid where she was, and enjoyed the life she 
liked, than to have come here and subject herself to sus¬ 
picion and slights from the people who did not know her. 
And then she was so cold, and chilly, and uncomfortable 
generally. 

But when the fire was made she felt better, and 
drawing an easy chair close to it assumed her usual in¬ 
dolent and lounging attitude. Twice Axie, who seemed 
to be excited, passed the door, once when she was taking 
the hot water to Rossie’s room, and again, later, after 
she had received an impression of the strangers against 
whom she had mentally declared war. This time Jose¬ 
phine called her. She had heard an unusual stir above, 
and from Mrs. Markham’s protracted absence, and Axie’s 
evident haste, suspected that the bombshell she had 
thrown had taken effect, especially if, as she believed, 
Rosamond was particularly interested in Everard. 

“ Woman,” she said, as the black face glanced in, 
“ what is your name ?” 

“Axie, ma’am,” was the crisp reply, and Josephine 
continued : “Oh, yes, I have heard my husband speak of 
you. I am very sorry he is not here to set matters 
right. What is the matter up-stairs? Is any one sud¬ 
denly ill ?” 

Axie was bristling with resentment toward this 
woman, who called Everard her husband so coolly, and 
m whom she would not believe till she had her master’s 
word of confirmation. Still, she must not be insolent, 
fehat was against her creed ; but she answered with great 
dignity, “ I tole you Miss Hastin’s was sick when you 
fust come. Her throat be very sore, an’ her head mighty 
bad so, you’ll sense me, now,” and with a kind of sup¬ 
pressed snort Axie departed, jingling her keys and toss¬ 
ing her blue-turbaned head high in the air. 

Josephine knew perfectly well how she was regarded 
in the house, and, irritated and chagrined, decided at 
once upon her policy. She should be very araiaVe and 
sweet, of course, but firm in asserting her rights She 
was Everard’s wife, and she could prove it, and it waa 


240 


MBS, FOB BEST'S POLICY. 

natural that she should come to what she supposed was 
bis home and hers. It was not her fault that she had 
made the mistake. The wrong was on his side, and she 
Bhould stay there until he came, unless they turned her 
from the door, which she hardly thought they would do. 

Just then Mrs. Markham appeared, apologizing for 
her long absence, and saying that though Miss Hastings 
was, of course, surprised at what she had heard, she did 
not discredit it, and would telegraph at once for Mr. 
Forrest. 

“ Meantime,” she continued, “ she wishes you to re¬ 
main here till he comes, and has given orders to have 
you made comfortable. I believe there is a fire iE your 
room, if you wish to go to it before dinner. Miss Hast¬ 
ings is too ill to see you herself.” 

“ Thanks ; she is very kind. I would like to go to 
my room, and to have one of my trunks sent up. Agnes 
will show you which one,—the small leather box,” Jose¬ 
phine said, with a dignified bow, as she rose from her 
chair. 

Calling Aunt Axie, Mrs. Markham bade her conduct 
the lady to her room, where a bright wood fire was blaz¬ 
ing, and which looked very cheerful and pleasant; for, 
as it was Everard’s room, where he always slept when he 
spent a night at the Forrest House, Rosamond had taken 
great pains to keep it nice, and had transferred to it sev¬ 
eral articles of furniture from the other rooms. Here 
Josey’s spirits began to rise, and it was in quite a com¬ 
fortable state of mind that she dressed herself for din¬ 
ner, in a gown of soft cashmere, with just a little white 
at her throat and wrists. As it was only her mother for 
whom she mourned, she had decided that she might wear 
a jet necklace, which heightened the effect of her dress, 
if indeed it needed anything more to improve it than 
the beautiful face and wealth of golden hair. Even 
Mrs. Markham drew an involuntary breath as this vision 
of loveliness and grace came into the room, apologizing 
for being tardy, and inquiring so sweetly for Miss Hast¬ 
ings, who, she hoped, was no worse. 

Her policy was to be a sweet as well as a firm one, 
and before dinner was over even Mrs. Markham began 
to waver a little in her first opinion, and wonder why 
Everard should have kept secret his marriage with this 


m 


MRS. FORREST'S POLICY. 


brilliant, fascinating woman, who seemed so much of a 
lady, and who evidently was as well born as himself, at 
least on the maternal side, for Josey took care to say 
that her mother knew Mrs. Forrest when she was a girl, 
and was present at her wedding in Boston, but that, ow¬ 
ing to adverse circumstances, they saw nothing of each 
other after the marriage. 

“ Papa was unfortunate and died, and we moved into 
the country, where, for a time, mamma had a hard strug¬ 
gle to keep up, and at last took a few boarders in order 
to live,” she said ; and her blue eyes were very tender 
and pathetic as she told what in one sense was the truth, 
though a truth widely different from the impression she 
meant to convey. 

Once Agnes, whose fa«e was very white, gave her 
such a look of sorrowful entreaty that Mrs. Markham 
observed and wondered at it, just as she wondered at 
the great difference between the sisters, and could only 
account for it on the supposition that Agnes’ mother 
was a very different woman from the second Mrs. 
Fleming, who had been a friend of Mrs. Forrest, and a 
guest at her wedding ! Miss Belknap was, of course, 
brought into the conversation, and Josephine was sorry 
to hear that she was not at home. 

“I depended upon her to vouch for my respectability. 
She knows me so well,” she said, explaining that Bea¬ 
trice had been for some time an inmate of her mother’s 
house in Holburton, and that she had liked her so much, 
and then, more bewildered than ever, Mrs. Markham 
went over half-way to the enemy, and longed for the 
mystery to be explained. 

The next day, which was Saturday, it rained with a 
steady pour, and Josephine kept her room, after having 
expressed a wish to see Miss Hastings, if possible ; but 
when this request was made known to Rossie by Mrs. 
Markham, she exclaimed : 

“ No, no,—not her ; not Joe Fleming ! I could not 
bear it till Mr. Everard comes.” 

She was thinking of her hair and the letter, and the 
persistence with which Joe Fleming had demanded 
money from Everard, and it made no difference with her 
that Mrs. Markham represented the woman as pretty, 
and lady-like, and sweet. She could not see her, and a 


MRS. FORREST'S POLICY . 


347 


message to the effect that she was too weak and sick 
to talk with strangers was taken to Josephine, who 
hoped Miss Hastings was not going to be seriously 
ill, and offered the services of her sister, who had the 
faculty of quieting the most nervous persons and put¬ 
ting them to sleep. But Rossie declined Agnes too, and 
lay with her face to the wall, scarcely moving, and 
never speaking unless she was spoken to. And Josephine 
lounged in her own room, and had her lunch brought up 
by Axie, to whom she tried to be gracious. But Axie 
was not easily won. She did not believe in Mrs. J. E. 
Forrest, and looked upon her presence there as an affront 
to herself and an insult to Rossie, and when about two 
o’clock the Rothsay Star was brought into the house by 
her husband, John, who was in a state of great excite¬ 
ment over the marriage notice, which had been pointed 
out to him, she wrung from Lois the fact that she had 
carried a note to the editor, and had been paid a quarter 
for it by the lady up-stairs. She put the paper away 
where it could not be found if Rossie chanced to ask for it. 

But she could not keep it from the world as repre¬ 
sented by Rothsay, for it was already the theme of 
every tongue. The editor had read the note which 
Josephine sent him before Lois left the office, and had 
questioned her as to who sent her with it. Lois had 
answered him : 

“ De young lady what corned from de train wid four 
big trunks and bandbox.” 

“ And where is she now ?” he asked, and Lois replied : 
“ Up sta’rs in Mas’r Everard’s room.” 

This last was proof conclusive of the validity of the 
marriage, which the editor naturally concluded was a 
hasty affair of Everard’s college days, when he had the 
reputation of being rather wild and fast, and so he pub¬ 
lished the notice and in another column called attention 
to it, as the last great excitement. 

Of course there was much wondering, and surmising, 
and guessing, and in spite of the rain the ladies who 
lived near each other got together and talked it up, and 
believed or discredited it according to their several 
natures. Mrs. Dr. Rider, a chubby, good-natured, in 
qnisitive woman, declared her intention of knowing the 
facts before she slept. Her husband attended Rosa- 


m 


MRS. FORREST'S POLICY. 


monel, and she had a sirup which was just the medicint 
for a sore throat and influenza, such as Rossie was 
suffering from, and she would take it to her, and per¬ 
haps learn the truth of the story of Everard’s marriage. 

Accordingly, about four o’clock that afternoon, Mrs. 
Dr. Rider’s little covered phaeton turned into the For 
rest avenue, and was seen from the window by Jose 
phine, who, tired and ennuyeed , was looking out into the 
rain. 

That the phaeton held a lady she saw, and as the 
lady could only be coming there she resolved at once to 
put herself in the way of some possible communication 
with the outer world. Glancing at herself in the mirror 
she saw that she was looking well, although a little paler 
than her wont, but this would make her more interesting 
in the character she meant to assume, that of an angelic 
martyr. As the day was chilly, a soft white wrap of 
some kind would not be out of place, and would add to 
the effect. 

So she snatched up a fleecy shawl of Berlin wool, 
and throwing it around her shoulders, took with her a 
book, and hurrying down to the reception-room, had 
just time to seat herself gracefully and becomingly, when 
the door opened and Mrs. Dr. Rider came in. 

Aunt Axie, who was a little deaf, was in the kitchen 
busy with her dinner, while Lois was in the barn, hunt¬ 
ing for eggs, and so no one heard the bell, which Mrs. 
Rider pulled twice, and then, presuming upon her long 
acquaintance with the house, opened the door and walked 
into the reception-room, where she stopped for an in¬ 
stant, startled by the picture of the pretty blonde in 
black, with the white shawl, and the golden hair rippling 
back from the beautiful face. 

Here was a stroke of what Mrs. Rider esteemed luck 
She had stumbled at once upon the very person she had 
come to inquire about, and as she was not one Jo lose any 
time, she shook the rain-drops from her waterproc f, and 
drawing near to the fire, turned to the lady in the easy- 
chair, and said: 

I beg your pardon for my very unceremonious en¬ 
trance I rang twice, and then ventured to come in, it 
was raining so hard.” 

Josephine admitted that it was raining hard, and re* 


MBS. FORREST'. S POLICY. 


249 


marked that slie expected to find it warmer in Southern 
Ohio than in Eastern New York, but she believed it was 
colder, and with a shiver she drew her shawl around 
her shoulders, shook back her hair, and lifted her blue 
eyes to Mrs. Rider, win? responded: 

“ Fou came from the East, then ?” 

“ 5Tes, madam, from Holburton. That is, I am from 
there just now, but it’s only two weeks since I returned 
from Europe, where I have been for a long time.” 

Here there was a solution in part of the mystery. 
This wife had been in Europe, and that was why the 
secret had been kept so long, and little Mrs. Dr. Ride.* 
flushed with eager excitement and pleasurable curiosity 
as she said: 

“ From Europe ! You must be tired with your long 
journey. Have you ever been in Rothsay before ? 
From your having come from the East I suppose you 
must be a relative of Mrs. Forrest, who was born in 
Boston ?” 

Josephine knew she did not suppose any such thing, 
and that in all probability she had seen the notice in the 
Star, and had come to spy out the land, but it was not 
her policy to parade her story unsolicited ; so she merely 
replied that she was not a relative of Mrs. Forrest’s 
though her mamma and that lady had been friends in 
their girlhood. To have been a friend of the late Mrs. 
Forrest stamped a person as somebody, and Mrs. Rider 
began at once to espouse the cause of this woman, t< 
whom she said: 

“ I hope you will excuse me if I seem forward in what 
I am about to say. I am Mrs. Rider, wife of the family 
physician, and a friend of Everard, and when I saw that 
notice of his marriage in the Star I could hardly credit 
it, though I know such things have been before; but four 
years is such a long time to keep an affair of that kind a 
secret. May I ask if it is true, and if you are the wife ?” 

“It is true, and I am his wife, or I should not be 
here,” Josey said, very quietly. 

“ Yes, certainly not, of course,” Mrs. Rider replied, 
hardly knowing what she was saying, and wishing that 
the fair blonde whose eyes were looking so steadily into 
the tire would say something more, but she didn’t. 

She was waiting for her visitor to question her, which 


250 


MBS. FORREST'S POLICY. 


she presently did, for she could never leave the matter in 
this way, so she said: 

“ You will pardon me, Mrs. Forrest, but knowing a 
little makes me want to know more. It seems so strange 
that Everard should have been a married man for more 
than four years and we never suspect it. It must have 
been a private marriage.” 

“ Ye-es, in one sense,” Josephine said, with the air of 
one who is having something wrung from him unwil¬ 
lingly. “ A great many people saw us married, for it 
was in a drama,—a play,—but none of them knew it was 
meant to be real and binding, except Everard and my¬ 
self and the clergyman, who was a genuine clergyman. 
We knew and intended it, of course, or it would not 
have been valid. We were engaged, and did it on the 
impulse of the moment, thinking no harm. Nor was 
there, except that we were both so young, and Everard 
not through college. We told mother and sister, but no 
one else, and as the villagers did not know of our inten¬ 
tion to be married, or that Dr. Matthewson was a cler 
gyman, they never suspected the truth, and the secret 
was to be kept until Everard was graduated, and after 
that-” 

She spoke very slowly now, and drew long breaths, as 
if every word she uttered were a stab to her heart. 

“ After that I hoped to get out of my false position, 
but there was some fear of Judge Forrest, which kept 
Everard silent, waiting for an opportunity to tell him, 
for I was not rich, you know, and he might be angry; so 
I waited patiently, and his father died, and I went tc 
Europe, and thus the years have gone.” 

The blue eyes, in which the tears were shining, more 
from steadily gazing into the lire than from emotion of 
any kind, were lifted to Mrs. Rider, who was greatly af¬ 
fected, and then said : 

“ Yes, I see ; but when the judge died there was 
nothing in the way of acknowledging the marriage. I 
am surprised and disappointed in Everard that he should 
treat you thus.” 

Mrs. Rider’s sympathy was all with the injuied wife, 
who seemed so patient and uncomplaining, and who re¬ 
plied : 

“ He had good reasons, no doubt. His father disin- 



M118. F0tttE8T'S POLICY. 


m 


herited him, I believe, and that may have had its effect, 
but I do not wish it talked about until Everard corner 
It is very awkward for me that he is absent. I expected 
to meet him. I must come, of course ; there was no other 
way, for mamma recently died, and the old home was 
broken up. I must come to my husband.” 

She kept asserting it as if in apology for her being 
there, and her voice trembled, and her whole air was one 
of such injured innocence that Mrs. Rider resolved within 
herself to stand by her in the face of all Rothsay, if 
necessary. Mrs. Rider was a very motherly little woman, 
and her heart went out at once to this girl, whose blue 
eyes and black dress appealed so strongly to her sympa¬ 
thies. She liked Everard, too, and did not mean to be 
disloyal to him, if she could help it, but she should 
stand by the wife ; and she was so anxious to get away 
and talk up the wonderful news with her acquaintances 
that she forgot entirely the sirup she had brought for 
Rossie’s throat, and would have forgotten to inquire after 
Rossie herself if Aunt Axie had not accidentally put her 
head in the door and given vent to a grunt of surprise 
and disapprobation when she saw her in close conversa¬ 
tion with Josephine, and, with her knowledge of the 
lady’s character for gossip, foresaw the result. 

“Oh, Miss Rider, is you here?” she said, advancing 
into the room ; “ and does Miss Markham know it ? I’ll 
fotch her directly, ’cause Miss Ros’mon’s too sick to see 
yer.” 

“Never mind, Axie,” Mrs. Rider said, rising and be¬ 
ginning to adjust her waterproof. “I drove up to in¬ 
quire after Rossie, and have spent more time than i 
intended talking with Mrs. Forrest,” and she nodded 
toward Josephine, who also arose and acknowledged the 
nod and name with a gracious bow. 

She saw the impression she had made on her visitor, 
who took her hand at parting, and said : 

“ You will probably remain in Rothsay now, and I 
shall hope to see a great deal of you.” 

Again Josephine bowed assentingly to Mrs. Rider, 
who at last left the room, followed by Axie, whose face 
was like a thunder-cloud as she almost slammed the door 
in the lady’s face in her ar xiety to be rid of her. 


WE AT TEE PEOPLE SAID AFD BIB. 


£52 


CHAPTER XXXII. 

WHAT THE PEOPLE SAID AND DID. 

EFORE bed-time half the people in Rothssj 
knew of the marriage, and that Mrs. Dr, 
Rider had seen and talked with the lady, who 
was reported as very beautiful, and young, 
and stylish, and cultivated, and traveled, and 
a Bostonian, whose family had been on the most intimate 
terms with the Bigelows. She was also a friend of Bee 
Belknap, who had spent a summer with her, and proba¬ 
bly knew of the marriage, which was a sort of escapade 
gotten up on the spur of the moment, and kept a secret 
at first because Everard was not through college, and 
feared his father’s displeasure. But why it was not 
made public after the judge’s death was a question which 
even the wise ones could not answer ; and so the wonder 
and excitement increased. 

The next morning, which was Sunday, dawned clear 
and bright. The rain was over, and at the usual hour 
the Rothsayites betook themselves to their accustomed 
place of worship. Trinity church was full that morning, 
for though the people hardly expected Mrs. J. E. Forrest 
herself, they did expect Mrs. Markham, and hoped to 
hear something more from her. But Mrs. Markham was 
not there, and the large, square pew which the Forrests 
had occupied for many years, and which was far up the 
middle aisle, was empty until the reading of the Psalms 
commenced, when there was heard outside the sound of 
rapidly approaching wheels, which stopped before the 
door, and a moment after there entered a graceful figure 
clothed in black, with the prettiest little Paris bonnet 
erched on the golden hair, the long crape vail thrown 
ack, disclosing the fair, blonde face, which was a little 
flushed, while the blue eyes had in them a timid, bashfu. 
express : on as they glanced quickly round in quest of the 
sexton, who, having fulfilled his duties at the bell, had 
gone to the organ loft, for he was olower as well as bell¬ 
ringer, and left to others the task of seating strangers. 
But Josey did not have to wait long, for four men,—two 






WHAT THE PEOPLE SAID AND DID. 253 


young, one middle-aged, and one white-haired and old,— 
simultaneously left their pews and made a movement to¬ 
ward her, the youngest reaching her first and asking i i 
she would have a seat. 

“Yes, thank you. Please show me Judge Forrest’s 
pew,” was the reply, and every head was turned as her 
long skirts went trailing up the aisle, and the air was 
filled with the costly and delicate perfume she carried 
with her, and which was fresh from Pinaud’s. 

What a long time she remained upon her knees, and 
how devout she was after she had arisen, and how clearly 
and sweetly she sang the “Gloria,” and how wonderfully 
her overskirt was looped, and how jauntily her iacket 
fitted her, with such a pretty stand-up collar, and how 
white her neck was above it, andkow beautiful the wavy 
hair under the lovely bonnet. All these details, and 
more, were noted by every woman in church who could 
get a view of her, while even the clergyman, good and 
conscientious man as he was, found it difficult to- keep 
his eyes from straying too often to that crimson-cush¬ 
ioned pew and the black-robed figure whose responses 
were so audible and clear, and who seemed the very in¬ 
carnation of piety and innocence. He had heard of 
Mrs. J. £. Forrest, and he guessed who the stranger was, 
and when service was over he came down to speak to 
her. Mrs. Rider, however, was there before him, and 
was shaking hands with the lady, whom she presented 
to the rector, and to his wife, and to several others who 
sat near, and who involuntarily moved in that direction. 

And Josephine received them with a modesty of de¬ 
meanor which won their sympathy, if not their hearts, 
at once. Not the slightest allusion did they make to her 
husband, but she spoke of him herself, naturally and 
easily. She had hoped to find him at home when she 
came and have him present her to his friends, but unex¬ 
pected business had called him away, she believed. How¬ 
ever, he would soon return, as Miss Hastings had tele¬ 
graphed for him, and then she should not feel so much 
alone. 

How very gentle and gracious she was, answering 
all ciuestions with great modesty, and without seem¬ 
ing to volunteer any direct remarks, adroitly man- 
aging to drop a good many scraps of information with 


254 


EVER AMD FACES IT. 


regard to herself and her past life, all of course highly 
advantageous to herself. Of Everard she said very little, 
but when she did speak of him it was always as “ My 
husband, Mr. Forrest.” 

She should certainly expect him on the morrow, she 
said, and then she should not feel so much like a stranger, 
possibly an impostor, and she laughed a little musical 
laugh, and her blue eyes sparkled so brightly and her 
lips curled so prettily that every heart was won, and the 
whole bevy of ladies followed her to the carriage telling 
her they should call and see her very soon, stood watch¬ 
ing her as she drove away, and talked together of her 
and her recreant husband, in whom there must be some 
thing wrong, or he would long ago have acknowledged 
this peerlees woman as his wife. And so the talk in¬ 
creased and every conceivable story was set afloat, and 
poor Everard stood at rather a low ebb in public 
opinion, when the six o’clock train came in the next day 
and left him standing upon the platform, bewildered and 
confounded with the words which greeted him as he left 
the car, and which gave him the first intimation of what 
he was to expect. The editor of the Rothsay Star was 
standing there, and hitting Everard upon the shoulder, 
exclaimed : 

" Hallo, Forrest. A nice trick you’ve been playing 
upon ns,—married all this time, and not let us know.” 

“ Married ! What do you mean ?” And Everard 
turned white to his lips, while his friend replied : 

“ What do I mean ? Why, I mean that your wife 
is up at Forrest House, and thunder to pay generally.” 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 

EVERARD FACES IT. 

HEN Everard was interrupted in his interview 
with Rosamond, his first feeling was one of 
regret, for he had made up his mind to tell 
her everything. He had held her in his arms 
for one blissful moment, and pressed his lips 
to her forehead, and the memory of that woul d help him 








EVERAEB FACES IT. 


360 


to bear the wretchedness of all the after life. But be¬ 
fore he could begin his story, Lawyer Russell came in, 
and the opportunity was lost. He could, however, write, 
and he fully meant to do so, and after his arrival at 
Digliton he began two or three letters, which he tore in 
pieces, for he found it harder than he had expected to 
confess that he had a wife to the girl he had kissed go 
passionately, and who, he felt certain, loved him in re¬ 
turn. lie had seen it in her eyes, which knew no decep¬ 
tion, and in the blushes on her cheek, and his greatest 
pain came from the knowledge that she, too, must suffer 
through him. And so he put off the writing day after 
day, and employed his leisure moments in hunting up 
the laws of Indiana on divorce, and felt surprised to find 
how comparatively easy it was for those whom Heaven 
had joined together to be put asunder by tbe courts of 
man. Desertion, failure to support, uncongeniality, were 
all valid reasons for breaking the bonds of matrimony , 
and from reading and dwelling so much upon it be came 
at last to consider it seriously as something which in his 
case was excusable. Whatever Rossie might think of it 
he should be happier to know the tie was broken, even 
if the whole world disapproved ; and he at last deliber¬ 
ately made up his mind to free himself from the hated 
marriage, which grew tenfold more hateful to him when 
there came to his knowledge a fact which threw light at 
once upon some things he had never been able to under¬ 
stand in Dr. Matthewson. 

He was sitting one evening in the room devoted 
mostly to the use of gentlemen at the hotel where he 
was stopping, and listening in a careless kind of way to 
the conversation of two men, one an inmate of the house, 
and the other a traveler just arrived from western New 
York. For a time the talk flowed on indifferent topics, 
and drifted at last to Clarence, where it seemed that 
both men had once lived, and about which the Dlghton 
man was asking some questions. 

“ By the way,” he said, “ whatever became or that 
Matthewson, he called himself, though his real name 
when I first knew him was Hastings. You know the 
Methodist Church got pretty v/ell bitten with him. He 
was always the tallest kind of a rasca . I knew him 
well.” 


256 


EVERARD FACES IT. 


Everard was interested now, and while seeming to 
read the paper lie held in his hands, did not lose a word 
of all which followed next. 

“Matthewson? Oh, yes, I know,” the Clarence man 
replied. “ You mean the fellow who was so miraculously 1 
converted at a camp-meeting, and then took to preach¬ 
ing, though a bigger hypocrite never lived. I don’t 
know where he is now. He dabbled in medicine after 
he left Clarence, and got “Doctor ” hitched to his name, 
and has been gambling through the country ever since. 
The last I heard of him somebody wrote to Clarence 
asking if he had a right to marry a couple, by which I 
infer that he has been doing a little ministerial duty by 
way of diversion.” 

“ I should hardly think a marriage performed by him 
valid, though I dare say it would hold in court,” the 
Dighton man, who was a lawyer, replied ; adding, after 
a moment, “Matthewson is the name of his aunt, which 
he took at her death, together with a few thousands she 
left him. His real name is John Hastings. I knew him 
when he was a boy, and he was the most vindictive, un¬ 
principled person I ever met, and his father was not 
much better, though both could be smooth as oil, and in¬ 
gratiate themselves into most anybody’s favor. He had 
a girl in tow some two or three years ago, I was told ; a 
very handsome filly, but fast as the Old Nick himself, if 
indeed, she was not worse than that.” 

Here the conversation was brought to a close, and 
Everard went to his room, where for a time he sat, 
stunned and powerless to move. Like a flash of light¬ 
ning it came upon him just who Dr. Matthewson was, 
and his mind went back to that night when, with a rash 
bey’s impetuosity, he had raised his hand against the 
mature man who, while smarting under the blows, had 
sworn to be revenged. And he had kept his word, and 
Everard could understand now why he had seemed so 
willing and even anxious that there should be a perfect 
understanding of the matter so as to make the marriage 
valid. 

“ Curse him !” Everard said to himself. “ He meant 
to ruin me. He could not have known what Josey was, 
but he knew it was not a fitting match for me, and no 
time or way for me to marry, if it were; but that was his 


EVERARB FACES IT. 


261 


i avenge. I remember be asket. me if I did not fear the 
man whom I had punished, and said people like him did 
not take eowhidings meekly; and he is Rossie’s half- 
brother / but if I can help it, she shall never know how 
he has injured me, the rascal. I’ll have a divorce now, 
at all hazards, even though it may do me no good, so 
far as Rossie is concerned. I'll see that lawyer to¬ 
morrow and teli him the whole story.” 

But before the morrow came, Everard received Mrs. 
Markham’s telegram, which startled him so much that he 
forgot everything in his haste to return home and see if 
aught had befallen Rosamond. It had something to do 
with her he was sure, but no thought that it had to do 
with Josephine entered his mind until he stepped from 
the car and heard that she was at the Forrest House. 
For an instant his brain reeled, and he felt and acted like 
a drunken man, as he went to claim his traveling-bag. 
Then, without a word to any one, he walked rapidly 
away in the darkness, with a face as white as the few 
snow-flakes which were just beginning to fall, and a feel¬ 
ing like death in his heart as he thought of Rossie left- 
alone to confront Joe Fleming as his w ife. And yet it 
did not seem very strange to him that Josephine was 
there. It was rather as if he had expected it, just as the 
murderer expects the day when his sin will find him out. 
Everard’s sin had found him out, and as he sped along 
the highway, half running in his haste to know the w r orst, 
he was almost glad that the thing he had dreaded so long 
had come at last, and to himself he said : 

“I’ll face it like a man, whatever the result may be.” 

From the windows of Rossie’s room a faint light waa 
shining, but it toll him nothing of the sick girl lying 
there, so nervous and excited that bright fever spots 
burned on her cheeks, and her hands and feet were like 
lumps of ice as she waited and listened for him, hearing 
him the moment he struck the gravel-walk beneath her 
window, for he purposely turned aside from the front 
piazza, choosing to enter the house in the rear, lest he 
should first encounter the woman, who, like Rossie, 
was waiting and watching for him, and feeling herself 
grow hot and cold alternately as she wondered what 
he would say. Like Rossie, she was sure he would 
come on that train, and had made herself as attractive 


256 


EVERARD FACES IT. 


as possible in her black cashmere and jet, with the white 
shawl around her shoulders, and her golden hair falling 
on her neck in heavy masses of curls. And then* 
with a French novel in her hand, she sat down to wait 
f oi the fir»t sound of the carriage which was to bring 
him, for she did not dream of his walking that cold, wet 
night, and was not on the alert to see the tall figure 
which came so swiftly through the darkness, skulking 
like a thief behind the shrubbery till it reached the rear 
door, where it entered, and stood face to face with old 
Aunt Axie, who in her surprise almost dropped the bowl 
of gruel she had been preparing for Rosamond. She 
did spill it, she set it down so quickly, and putting both 
her hands on Everard’s shoulders she exclaimed : 

“ Oh, Mars’r Everard, praise de Lord you am come at 
last! I couldn’t b’ar it much longer, with Miss Rossie 
sick up sta’rs, and that woman below swashin’ round 
wid her long-tailed gowns, an’ her yaller ha’r hangin’ 
down her back, and sayin’ she is your wife. She isn’t 
your wife, Ma.s’r Everard,—she isn’t ?” and Axie looked 
earnestly at the young man, who would have given 
more than half his life to have been able to say, “ No, 
she is not.” 

But he could not do that, and his voice shook as he 
replied : 

“ Yes, Aunt .Axie, she is my wife.” 

Axie did not cry out or say a word at first, but her 
black face quivered and her eyes filled with tears, as she 
took a rapid mental survey of the case as it stood now. 
Everard’s wife must of course be upheld for the credit of 
the family, and, though the old negress knew there was 
something wrong, it was not for her to inquire or to let 
others do so either ; and when at last she spoke, she 
said : 

“ If she’s your wife, then I shall stan’ by her.” 

He did not thank her or seem to care whether she 
stood by his wife or not, for his next question was : 

“ You said Rosamond was sick. What is the 
matter ?” 

“ Sore throat and bad cold fust, and then your wife 
corned an’ took us by surprise, an’ Miss Rossie fainted 
cl’ar away, and has been as white, an’ still, an’ slimpey 
as a rag ever since.” 


EVERARD AND ROSSIE. 


259 


Something like a groan escaped from Everard’s lips, 
as he said : 

“ Tell Miss Rossie I am here, and ask ii I can see her, 
—at once, before I meet anybody else.” 

“ Yes, I’ll tell her,” Axie said, as she hurried to the 
room, where, to her great surprise, she found her young 
mistress in her flannel dressing-gown and shawl, sitting 
m her easy-chair, with her head resting upon pillows 
scarcely whiter than her face, save where the red spots 
of fever burned so brightly. 

In spite of Mrs. Markham’s remonstrance Rossie had 
insisted upon getting up and being partly dressed. 

“ I must see Everard,” she said. “ You can’t under¬ 
stand, and I can’t explain, but he will come to me, and 
I must see him alone. 

“Yes. Tell him to come up; I am ready for him,” 
she said to Aunt Axie. 

And Everard advanced, with a sinking heart, and 
knocked at Rossie’s door just as a black-robed figure, 
with a white wool shawl wrapped around it, started to 
come up the stairs. 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 


EVERARD AND ROSSIE. 



HE voice which said “ Come in ” did not sound 
like Rossie’s at all, nor did the little girl sit¬ 
ting in the chair look much like the Rossie 
he had last seen, flashed with health and hap¬ 
piness, and the light of a great joy shining 
in the eyes which now turned so eagerly toward him as 
he came in. On the stairs outside there was the rustling 
of skirts, and he heard it, and involuntarily slid the 
bolt of the door, and then swiftly crossed to where Ros¬ 
sie’s face was upturned to his with a smile of welcome, 
and Rossie’s hands were both outstretched to him as she 
said : 

“ Oh, Mr. Everard, I am glad you have come ; we 
have wanted you so much.” 









EVE HARD AND ROSSIE. 


860 

He hail thought she would meet him with < oldness 
and scorn for his weakness and duplicity, and he was 
prepared for that, but not for this ; and forgetting him¬ 
self utterly for the moment, he took the offered hands 
and held them tightly in his own, until sue released them 
from him and motioned him to a seat opposite her. 
where he could look into her face, which, now that he 
saw it more closely, had on it such a grieved, disap 
pointed expression that he cried out : 

“ Kill me, Rossie, if you will ! but don’t lcok at me 
that way, for I cannot bear it. I know what I’ve done 
and what I am, better than you do.” 

Here he paused, and Rossie said : 

“I am sorry, Everard, that you did not tell me long 
ago, when it first happened. Four years and more, she 
says. I’ve been thinking it over, and it must have been 
that time you came home when your mother died and 
you were so sick afterward. You were married then.” 

How quietly and naturally she spoke the words 
“ married then,” as if it was nothing to her that he was 
married then or now, but the hot blood flamed up for a 
moment in her face and then left it whiter than before, 
as Everard replied : 

“Yes, if that can be called a marriage which was a 
mere farce, and has brought nothing but bitter humilia¬ 
tion to me, and been the cause of my ruin. I wish that 
day had been blotted from my existence.” 

“ Hush, Everard,” Rossie said. “ You must not talk 
that way, and your wife here in the house w r aiting for 
you. I have not seen her yet, but they tell me she is 
very beautiful.” 

“Yes, with that cursed beauty which lures men, or 
rather fools, to their destruction ; and I was a fool !” 
Everard answered, bitterly,—“ an idiot, who thought 
myself in love. Don’t call her my wife, Rossie. She 
has never been that ; never will be. But I did not come 
here to abuse her. I came to tell you the whole truth at 
last, as I ought to have told it years ago, when my 
mother was on her death-bed. I tried to tell her, but 
I could not. I made a beginning by showing her 
Josephine’s picture, which she did not like. The face 
was pretty, she said, but not the face of a true, refined 
woman, but rather of one who wore dollar jewelry,” and 


E VERA III) AW) ROSSIE. 


*361 


Lare .Everard laughed sarcastically as he went on ; “then 
I showed the picture to Bee, who said she looked as if 
she might wear cotton lace. But you, Rossie, said the 
hardest thing of all, and decided me finally not to tell, 
for I had almost made up my mind to make you my con¬ 
fidante.” 

“I, Everard? I decided you? You must be mis¬ 
taken. When was it, Everard ?” Rossie exclaimed, her 
eyes growing very large and bright in her excitement. 

“ Dc you remember I once showed you a picture of a 
young girl ?” Everard said. “ You were watering 
flowers in the garden ; and you said she was very beauti¬ 
ful, but suggested that the jewelry, of which there was a 
superfluity on her neck and arms, might be a sham, and 
said she looked like a sham , too. How could I tell you 
after that, that she was* my wife ? I couldn’t, ai?d I kept 
it to myself ; and mother died, and I went crazy, and 
you cut off your hair and sold it to pay what you be¬ 
lieved to be a gambling debt, and you wrote to Joe 
Fleming, and I did not open my lips to undeceive you. 

“ I will have my say out,” he continued, fiercely, as 
Rossie put up her hands to stop him ; “I deserve a good 
cudgeling, and I’ll give it to myself, for no one knows as 
well as I do just what a sneaking coward I have been all 
these years, when you have been believing in me and keep¬ 
ing me from going to the-. No, I won’t swear; at least 

before you, who have been my good angel ever since 
you knew enough to chide me for my faults. Oh, Ros¬ 
sie ! what would I give to be put back to those old days 
when I was comparatively innocent, and you, in your 
cape sun-bonnet and long-sleeved aprons, were the dear¬ 
est, sweetest little girl in all the world, just as you are 
now. I will say it, though I am killing yon, I know, and 
I am almost wicked enough not to care, for I would 
rather there were no Rossie in this world than to know 
she lived to hate and despise me.” 

“No, Everard, never that, never !” and Rossie again 
stretched toward him her pale little hands, which he 
seized and held while he told her rapidly the whole story 
of his marriage, beginning at the time he first saw Josey 
Fleming and went to board with her mother. 

One item, however, he 'wthhe'd. He did not tell heT 
that it was her half-brother who had married hjn hot 



282 


EVE BARD AND R088TE, 


did be give the name of the clergyman. He would spare 
her all pain in that direction, if possible, and let her 
think as well as she could of the brother she could 
scarcely remember, and who, she believed, must be dead, 
or he would ere this have manifested some interest in 
her. 

Of Josephine he spoke very plainly, and though he 
did not exaggerate her faults, he showed conclusively, 
in what he said, that his love for her had long since died 
out, and he went on from one fact to another so rapidly that 
Rossie felt stunned and bewildered and begged him to 
stop. But he would not. She must hear him through, he 
said, and at the close of his story she looked so white and 
tired that he bent over her in alarm, chafing her cold 
hands and asking what he could do for her. 

“Nothing but to leave me now,” she said. “ I have 
heard so much and borne so much that none of it seems 
real. There’s a buzzing in my head, and I believe I’m 
going to faint again, or die. How could you, do all this, 
and I trusted you so ?—and, oh, Everard, where are you ? 
It grows so dark and black, and I’m so sick and faint,” 
and with a sobbing, hysterical cry, Rossie involuntarily 
let her tired, aching head fall upon the arm which held 
it so gladly, and which fain would have kept it there 
forever. 

Rossie did not faint quite away, as she had done 
when the news of Everard’s marriage reached her, but 
she lay still and helpless in Everard’s arms until she felt 
his hot kisses upon her forehead, and that roused he' 
at once. He had no right to kiss her, she no right to 
suffer it, and she drew herself away from him to the safe 
shelter of her pillows, as she said, with her old childish 
manner: 

“ Everard, you must not kiss me like that. It is toe 
*ate. Such things are over between us now.” 

She seemed to accept the fact that he loved her, and 
though the love was hopeless, and, turn which way she 
would, there was no brightness in the future, the knowl¬ 
edge of what might have been was in one sense very 
sweet to her, and the face which Everard took between 
his hands and looked earnestly into, while his lips quiv¬ 
ered and his eyes were full of tears, seeraei to him like 
the face of an angel. 


MR. AND MRS. J. E. FORREST. 


263 


“ Heaven pity me, Rossie,” he said “Heaven jitv 
ns both for this which lies between ns. ’ There was a 
knock outside the door and a voice Rossie had never 
heard before, said: 

“Miss Hastings, if my husband is with you, tell him 
his wife will be glad to see him when he can tear himself 
away. T have waited an hour, and surely I may claim 
my own now.” 

'There was an unmistakable coarseness of meaning in 
the words which brought the hot blood to Rossie’s cheeks, 
but Everard wa» pale as death, as, with a muttered exe¬ 
cration, he stepped back from Rossie, who said: 

“ Yes, go, Everard. She is right. Her claim is first. 
Say I am sorry I kept you. Go, and when I have thought 
it all out I’ll send for you, but don’t come till I do.” 

She motioned him to leave her, and with the look of 
one going to the rack, he obeyed, and unbolting the 
door, went out, shutting it quickly behind him, and thus 
giving the woman outside no chance for more than a 
glance at the white-faced little girl, of whose personal 
appearance no impression could be formed. 


CHAPTER XXXV. 

MR. AND MRS. J. E. FORREST. 

T had been Josephine’s intention to try and 
make peace with her husband, if possible, in 
the hope of winning him back to at least an 
outward semblance of harmony. And to do 
this she relied much on her beauty, which 
she knew had not diminished in the least since those 
summer days in Holburton, when he had likened her to 
every beautiful thing in the universe. She knew she 
was more attractive now than then, for she had studied 
to acquire an air of refinement and high-breeding which 
greatly enhanced her charms, and when she saw herself 
in the long mirror, with her toilet complete, and the 
made-up expression of sweetness and graciousnes on her 
face, she felt almost sure he could not withstand her. 






L E. FORREST. 


”64 MR. AND MRS. j 

She Lad heard from Lois that Everard was ,u the 
house, and as the moments went by and he did not come, 
the sweetness left her face, and there was a glitter in her 
blue eyes, as she walked impatiently up and down her 
chamber, listening for his footsteps. 

At last, aa she grew more and more impatient, she 
went down to the dining-room, thinking to find him 
there ; but he was still with Axie in the kitchen, and so 
she waited until she heard his step as he went rapidly up 
the stairs. 

Swiftly and noiselessly she glided into the hall and 
followed, but was only in time to see the shutting of the 
door of Rossie’s room and hear the sliding of the bolt, 
while her quick ear caught the sound of Rossie’s voice 
as she welcomed Everard. For a moment Josephine 
stood shaking with rage, and feeling an inclination to 
kick at the closed door, and demand an entrance. But 
she hardly dared do that, and so she waited, and 
strained her ear to catch the conversation carried on so 
rapidly, but in so low a tone and so far from her that 
she could not hear it all, or even half. But she knew 
Everard was telling the story of the marriage, and as he 
grew more earnest his voice naturally rose higher, until 
she could hear what he said, but not Rossie’s replies. 
Involuntarily clenching her fists, and biting her lips until 
the blood came through in one place, she listened still 
more intently and knew there was no hope for her, and 
felt sure that the only feeling she could now inspire in 
her husband’s heart was one of hatred and disgust. 

At last, when she could endure the suspense no longer, 
she knocked upon the door and claimed “ her own ” and 
got it, for her husband, whom she had not seen for more 
than two years, stood face to face with her, a tall, well- 
developed man, with a will and a purpose in his brown 
eyes, and a firm-set expression about his mouth which 
made him a very different person from the boy-lover 
whom she had swayed at her pleasure. 

Everard was a thorough gentleman, and it was not 
in his nature to be otherwise than courteous to any 
woman, and he bowed to Josephine with as much polite 
ness and deference as if it had been Bee Belknap stand 
ing there so dignified and self-possessed, and with an air 
of assurance and worldly tvisdom such as he had never 


MIL AMD MRS. J. E. FORREST. 


353 


seen in Josephine Fleming. For a moment he lookeu at 
her in surprise, but there was no sign of welcome in his 
face, no token of admiration for the visible improvement 
in her. He had an artist’s eye, and noticed that her 
lress was black, and that it became her admirably, and 
that the delicate white shawl was so knotted and ar¬ 
ranged as to heighten the effect of the picture; but he 
knew the woman so well that nothing she could do or 
wear could move him now. When she saw that she 
must speak first, she laughed a little, spiteful laugh, and 
said . 

“Have you nothing to say to me after two years’ 
separation, or have you exhausted yourself with her?” 
nodding toward Rossie’s door. 

That roused him, and he answered her ; 

“ Yes, much to say, and some things to explain and 
ipologize for, but not here. I will go with you to your 
'oom. They tell me you are occupying my old quarters.” 

He tried to speak naturally, and Josephine’s heart 
.beat faster as she thought that possibly he might be won 
*o an outward seeming of friendship after all, and it 
vould be better for her every way. So, when the pri- 
racy of her chamber was reached, and there was no 
danger of interruption, she affected the loving wife, and 
aying her hands on Everard’s arm, said, coaxingly and 
prettily : ^ 

“ Don’t be so cold and hard, Everard, as if you were 
sorry I came. I had nowhere else to go, and I’m no 
more to blame for being your wife than you are for 
being my husband, and I certainly have just cause to 
complain of you for having kept me so long in ignorance 
of your father’s death. Why did you do it ? But I 
need not ask why,” she continued, as she saw the frown 
on his face, and guessed he was not to be coaxed ; “ the 
reason is in the apartment you have just quitted.” 

Josephine got no further, for Everard interrupted 
her and sternly bade her stop. 

%i So long as you censure me for having kept my 
father’s death a secret from you I am bound to listen, for 
C deserve it; but when you assail Rosamond Hastings 
7011 have gone too far. I do not wish to quarrel with 
von, Josev, but we ma v well understand each other 
first as last. You had a right to come here, thinking it 

1% 


266 


MR. AND MRS. J. R FORREST. 


was still my home, and I am justly punished fcr my de¬ 
ceit, for which no one can hate me as I hate myself. If 
I had been candid and frank from the first, it would 
have saved me a great deal of trouble and self-abase¬ 
ment, You heard of my father’s death-” 

“ Yes, but no thanks are due you for the information. 
Mr. Everts, whom I met in Dresden, told me of it. At 
first I did not believe him, for I had credited you with 
being a man of honor, but he convinced me of the fac^, 
and in my anger I started home at once, and came here, 
to find that girl the mistress of the house, and, they tell 
me, your father’s heir. Is that true ?” 

“ I’ve nothing but what I earn,” he said, “ but I 
think I have proved conclusively that I can support you, 
whatever may come to me, and I expect to do so still, 
but it must be apart from myself. I wish that distinctly 
understood, as it will save further discussion. You 
could not be happy with me ; I should be miserable with 
you after knowing what I do, and seeing what I have 
seen.” 

Here she turned fiercely upon him, and with flashing 
eyes and dilated nostrils demanded what he meant. 

“I will tell you when I reach it,” he replied ; “but 
first, let me go over the ground from the beginning-’ 

“No need of that,” she replied, angrily. “ You went 
over the ground with her ,—that girl whom I hate with 
deadly hatred. I heard you. I was outside the door.’ 

“Listening !” Everard said, contemptuously. “A 
worthy employment, to which no lady would stoop.” 

“ Who said I was a lady ?” she retorted, stung by his 
manner and the tone of his voice, and forgetting herself 
entirely in her wrath. “ Don’t you suppose I know 
that it was because I was not a lady according to your 
creed that your father objected to me and that you have 
sickened of me. A poor, unknown butcher’s daughter is 
not a fit match for you ; and I was just that. You 
thought you married the daughter of Roxie Fleming, 
who kept a boarding-house, and so you did, and some¬ 
thing more. You married the daughter of the man who 
used to deliver meat at your grandfather’s door in Bos¬ 
ton, and of the woman who for years cooked in youi 
mother’s family. I knew this when you first came to us, 
and laughed in my sleeve, for I know how proud you 




MM. dJW MRS. J. E. FORREST. 


m 


are of family blood and birth, and I can boast of blood, 
too, but it is the blood of beasts, in which my father 
dealt, not the blue-veined kind, which shows itself in 
hypocrisy and the deliberate deception of years. I told 
your father, when I met him at Commencement, that my 
mother was present at his wedding, and she was. She 
made the jellies and ices, and stood with the other ser¬ 
vants to see the ceremony. Wouldn’t your lady mother 
turn over in her coffin if she could know just whom her 
boy married ?” 

Was she a woman, or a demon ? Everard wondered, as 
he replied : 

“ If possible, I would rather not bring my mother 
into the conversation, but since you will have it so, I 
must tell you that she did know who you were.” 

“ How ! did you tell your mother of the marriage, 
and have you kept that from me, too ?” Josephine asked, 
and he replied : 

“I did not tell her of the marriage, although I tried 
to, and made a beginning by showing her your picture, 
and telling her your name and that of your mother, 
whom she at once identified as the Roxie who had lived 
in her father’s family so long.” 

“ And of course my fine lady objected to such stock,” 
Josephine said, with a sneer in her voice. 

“ Josephine,” and Everard spoke more sternly than 
he had ever spoken to her in his life, say what you 
like to me, but don’t mention my mother in that tone or 
spirit again. She did not despise you for your birth. 
No true woman would do that. She said that innate re¬ 
finement or delicacy of feeling would always assert itself, 
and raise one above the lowest and humblest of positions. 
Almost her last words to me were of you, in whom she 
knew I was interested, for I had confessed as much. 

“ ‘ If she is so good, and womanly, and true, her birth 
is of no consequence—none whatever,’ she said. So 
you see she laid less stress upon it than do you, who 
know better than she did whether you are good, and 
womanly and true.” 

Here Josephine began to cry, but Everard did not 
heed her tears, and went on : 

“ There is in this country no degradation in honest 
labor ; it is the character, the actions, which tell ; and 


m 


MR Ai;±) MRS. J. E. FORREST. 


were you what I believed you to be when in my mad¬ 
ness I consented to that foolish farce, I would not care 
though yoar origin were the lowest which can be con¬ 
ceived.” 

Here Josephine stopped crying, and demanded, 
sharply 

“ What am I, pray ? What do you know of me ?— 
yon, who have scarcely seen me half a dozen times since 
I became your wife.” 

“ I know more than you suppose,—have seen more 
than you guess,” he replied ; “ but let me begin with the 
morning I left you in IIolburton, four years ago last 
June, and come down to the present time.” 

When he hinted that he knew more of her life than 
she supposed, there instantly flashed into Josephine’s 
mind the memory of all the love affairs she had been 
concerned in, and the improprieties of which she had 
been guilty, and she wondered if it were possible that 
Everard could know of them, too. But it was not, and, 
assuming a calmness she was far from feeling, she said : 

“ Ho on, I am all attention.” 

Very rapidly, Everard went over with the events of 
his life as connected with her up to the time of his 
father’s death and his own disinheritance, and here he 
paused a moment, while Josephine said : 

“ And so it was through me you lost your money. I 
rtm very sorry, and I must say I think it mean in that 
grrl to keep it, knowing as she does how it came to her.” 

“You misjudge her,” Everard said, quickly. “You 
know nothing of her, or how she rebelled against it and 
tried to give it back to me. But she cannot do it while 
she is under age, and I would not take it if she could. I 
made her believe it at last, and then counseled with Miss 
Belknap as to ray future course-” 

“Miss Belknap, indeed!” Josephine exclaimed, in¬ 
dignantly. “Don’t talk to me of Miss Belknap, the 
tricky, deceitful thing, to come into our house, knowing 
all the time who I was, and yet pretending such entire 
ignorance of everything. How I hate her. and you, too, 
for sending her there as a spy upon my actions.” 

“You are mistaken,” Everard said. “Bee was no 
tale-bearer, and no spy upon your actions. Neither was 
&be sent to ycu, for I did not know she was there till she 



MR. AND MRS. J. E. FORREST. 


209 


wrote me to that effect. She had the beat o i motives 
in going to your mother’s house. She wished to see you 
for herself, and,—pardon me, Josey, if 1 speak very 
plainly,—she wished to find all the good there was in 
you, so as to know better how to befriend you, should 
you need it.” 

“ Which, thank Heaven, I don’t, so she had fee? 
trouble for her pains,” was Josephine’s rejoinder, of 
which Everard took no notice, but simply went on : 

“ Beatrice has been your best friend from the mo* 
ment she first heard of you, and after father’s death she 
advised me to go straight to you and tell you the whole 
truth, and offer you a home such as I could make for 
you myself,—in short, offer you poverty and protect!or 
as my acknowledged wife.” 

“ Strange you did not follow her advice, with your 
high notions of morality,” Josephine said, with a sneers 
and he replied : 

“ 1 started to do it in good faith, and went as far as 
Albany without a thought that I should not do it, but 
there I began to waver, for I saw you, myself unseen 
and my presence unsuspected, so that you acted and 
spoke your feelings without restraint. 

“ Perhaps you can recall a concert or opera which you 
attended with Doctor Matthewson as your escort, and 
perhaps, though that is not so likely, you may remember 
the man who seemed to be asleep in the seat behind the 
one you took 'when you entered the car, talking and 
laughing so loudly that you drew to yourself the atten¬ 
tion of all the passengers, and especially the young man, 
who listened with feelings which can be better imagined 
than described, while his wife made light of him, and 
allowed attentions and liberties such as no pure-minded 
woman would for a moment have suffered from any man 
and much less from one of Dr. Matthewson’s character 
I hardly know what restrained me from knocking line 
down and publicly denouncing you, but shame and dis¬ 
gust kept me silent, while vords and glances which 
made my blood boil passed between you two until you 
were tired out and laid you head on his arm as readily 
as you would have rested it on mine had I sat in hie 
place. And there I left you asleep, and I have never 
looked upon your face since until to-night, when I found 


270 


MR. AND MRS. J. E. FORREST L 


you at Miss Hastings’ door. After that scene in the car 
I could not think of offering to share my poverty with 
you. We were better apart, and I made a vow that 
never for an hour would I live with you as my wife. 
The thing is impossible; but because I dreaded the notori¬ 
ety of an open rupture, and the talk and scandal sure 
to follow an admission of the marriage, I kept quiet, 
trusting to chance to work it out for me as it has done 
at last. And now that the worst has come, I am ready 
to abide by it and am willing to bear the blame myself, 
if that will help you any. The people in Rothsav will 
undoubtedly believe you the injured party, and I shall 
let them do so. I shall say nothing to your detriment 
except that it is impossible for us to live together. I 
shall support you just as I have done, but I greatly pre¬ 
fer that it should be in Holburton, rather than in Roth- 
say. It is the only favor I ask, that you do not remain 
here.” 

“And one I shall not grant,” was Josephine’s quick 
reply. “I like Rothsay, so far as I have seen it, and 
here I shall stay. Do you think that I will go back to 
Holburton, and bear all the malicious gossip of that 
gossipy hole ? Never ! I’ll die first! You accuse me 
of being fond of Dr. Matthewson, and so I am, and 1 
like him far better than I ever liked you, for he i« a gen¬ 
tleman , while you are a knave and a hypocrite, and that 
girl across the hall is as bad as you are ;—I hate her,—I 
hate you both !” 

She was standing close to him now, her face livid 
with rage, while the blue of her eyes seemed to have 
faded into a dull white, as she gave vent to her real 
feelings. But Everard did not answer her, and as the 
dinner-bell just then rang for the third time, she added 
sneeringly, “ If you are through with your abuse I’ll end 
the interview by asking you to take me down to dinner. 
No? You do not wish for any dinner ? Very well, I 
can go alone, so I wish you good-evening, advising you 
not to fast too long. It is not good for you. Possibly 
you may find some cracker and tea in Miss Hastings’ 
room, with which to refresh the inner man.” 

And sweeping him a mocking courtesy she started to 
leave the room, but at the door she met her sister, and 
stopped a moment while she said : 


MR. AND MRS. J. E. FORREST. 


271 


“All, Agnes, here is your brother, who, I hoje, will 
be better pleased to see you than he was to see me. If 1 
remember rightly you were always his favorite. Au re- 
voir ,” and kissing the tips of her fingers to Everard, she 
left the room, and he heard her warbling snatches of 
some old love song as she ran lightly down the stairs to 
the dining-room, where dinner had waited nearly an 
hour, and where Aunt Axie stood with her face blacker 
than its wont, giving off little angry snorts as she re¬ 
moved one after another the covers of the dishes, and 
pronounced the contents spoiled. 

“ Whar’s Mars’r Everard ? Isn’t he cornin’ ?” Aunt 
Axie asked, as Josephine showed signs of commencing 
her dinner alone, Mrs. Markham, who ate by rule and on 
time, having had tea and cold chicken, and gone. 

“ Mr. Forrest has lost his appetite and is not coming,’’ 
Josephine replied, with the utmost indifference, and as 
Agnes just then appeared, the sisters began their dinner 
alone. 

But few words had passed between Agnes and Ever¬ 
ard. She had taken his hand in hers and held it there 
while she looked searchingly in his face, and said: 

“ I didn’t want to come, but she would have it so, 
and I thought you knew and had sent for her. Maybe 1 
can persuade her to go back.” 

“ No, Aggie, let her do as she likes,—I deserve it all. 
But don’t feel badly, Aggie. I am glad to see you , at 
any rate, and I feel better because you are here ; and 
now go to the dinner, which has waited so long.” 

Agnes was not deceived in the least, and her heart 
was very heavy as she went down to the dining-room 
and took her seat by her sister, who affected to be so 
gay and happy, and who tried to soften old Axie by 
praising everything immoderately. 

But Axie was not deceived, either. She knew it was 
not all well between the young couple, and as soon as she 
had sent in the dessert, she started up stairs in quest of her 
boy, finding him in the chamber where his mother had 
died, and kneeling by the bed in such an abandonment 
of grief that, without waiting to consider whether she 
was wanted or not, she went softly to his side, and lay¬ 
ing her hard old hands pityingly on his bowed head, 
spoke to him lovingly and soothingly, just as she used to 


MR. AND MRS J. E. FORREST. 


•272 


speak to him when he was a little boy, and sal in hei 
broad lap to be comforted. 

“Thar, thar, honey; what is it that has happened 
you? Sufiin dreffie, or you wouldn’t be kneelin’ here in 
de cold air dark, wid only yer mother’s sperrit for com¬ 
pany. What is it, chile ? Can’t you tell old Axie? Is 
it her that’s a vexin’ you so ? Oh, Mars’r Everard, how 
could you do it ? Tell old Axie, won’t you ?” 

And he did tell her how the marriage occurred, and 
when, and that it was this which had caused the trouble 
between him and his father. lie said nothing against 
Josephine, except that he had lived to see and regret his 
mistake, and that it was impossible for him to live with 
her as his wife. And Axie took his side at once, and 
replied : 

“ In course you can’t, honey, I seen that the fust 
thing. She hain’t like you, nor Miss Beatrice, nor Miss 
Rcssie. She’s pretty, with them eyes and long winkers, 
an’ she’s kind of teterin’ an’ soft ; but can’t cheat dis 
chile. ’Tain’t the real stuff like your mother was. 
Sposin’ I go and paint my face all over with whitenin’. 
I ain’t white for all dat. Thar’s nobody but ole black 
nigger under de whitewash, for bless your soul, de thick 
lips and de wool will show, an’ it’s just de same with no 
’count white folks. But don’t you worry, I’ll stall’ by 
you. Course you can’f live with her. I’ll make a fire 
an’ fetch you some supper, an’ you’ll feel better in de 
mornin’,—see if you don’t.” 

But Everard asked to be left alone, that he might 
think it out and decide what to do. He could not go to 
bed, and so he sat the entire night before the fire in the 
room where his mother had died, and where his father 
had denounced him so angrily, and where Rosamond 
had come to him and asked to be his wife. How vividly 
that last scene came up before him, and he could almost 
see the little girl standing there again, just as she stood 
that day, which seemed to him years and years ago. 
And but for that fatal misstep that little girl, grown to 
sweet womanhood, now might have been his. Turn 
which way he would, there was no help, no hope ; and 
the future loomed up before him dark and cheerless, 
with always this burden upon him, this bar to the happi¬ 
ness which might have been his had he only waited foi 


ROSAMOND'S DECISION,\ 


m 

it. Surely, if his sin was great, his punishment was 
greater, and when at the last the gray morning looked 
in at the windows of his room, it found him white, and 
haggard, and worn, with no definite plan as to his future 
course, except the firm resolve that whatever his life 
might be, it would be passed apart from Josephine. 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 

Rosamond’s decision. 

OSAMOND had sent word to Everard that she 
would see him after breakfast, and he went 
to her at once, finding her sitting up just as 
she was the previous night, but much paler, 
and more worn-looking, as if she had not 
slept in months. But the smile with which she greeted 
him was as sweet and cordial as ever, and in the eyes 
which she fixed so steadily upon him he saw neither 
hatred nor disgust, but an expression of unutterable 
sorrow and pity for him, and for herself, too, as well. 
Rossie was not one to conceal her feelings. She was 
too much a child, too frank and- ingenuous for that, and 
there was a great and bitter pain in her heart which she 
could not hide. Everard had never said in words that 
he loved her, but she had accepted it as a fact, and when 
her dream was so rudely dispelled she could no more 
conceal her disappointment than she could hide the rav¬ 
ages of sickness so visible upon her face. 

“ I’ve been thinking it all over,” she began, as he sat 
down beside her, “and though my opinion may not be 
worth much, I hope you will consider it, at least, and 
give it some thought before deciding not to adopt it.” 

He guessed what was corning, and nerved himself to 
keep quiet while she went on: 

“Everard, she is your wife. You cannot undo that, 
except in one way, and that you must not take, for it is 
wicked and wrong. You loved her once. You say you 
were quite as much to blame for the marriage as she, 
and you know you have been wrorg in keeping it a secret 

12 * 







274 


ROSAMOND'S DECISION. 


so long. She has just cause for complaint, and I want 
you to try to love her again. You must support her, and 
it will be so much better, and save so much talk and gos- 
sip if you live in the same house with her,—in this house, 
your rightful home.” 

“Never, Rossie !” he exclaimed, vehemently, “never 
can I make her really my wife, feeling as I do. It would 
be a sin, and a mockery, and I shall not do it. You say 
I loved her once ; perhaps I did, though it seems to me 
now like a child’s fancy for some forbidden dainty, 
which, if obtained, cloys on the stomach and sickens one 
ever after. No, Rossie, you talk in vain when you ask 
me to live with Josephine as my wife, or even live with 
her at all. The same roof cannot shelter us both. Sup¬ 
port her I shall, but live with her, never ! and I am pre¬ 
pared for all the people will say against me. If I have 
your respect and sympathy I can defy the world, though 
the future looks very dreary to me.” 

His voice trembled as he spoke, and he leaned back 
in his chair as if he, too, were faint and sick, while Ros¬ 
sie continued : 

“ Then, if you will not live with her under any circum¬ 
stances, this is my next best plan. Forrest House is her 
natural home, and she must stay here, whatever you mav 
do.” 

“ Here, Rossie ! Here with you ! Are you crazy ?” 
Everard exclaimed, and Rosamond replied : 

“ I am going away. I have thought it all over, and 
talked with Mrs. Markham. She has a friend in St, 
Louis who is wanting a governess for her three children, 
and she is going to write to-day and propose me, and if 
the lady consents, I,—I am going away.” 

Rossie finished the sentence with a long-drawn 
breath, which sounded like a sob, for this going away 
from all she loved best was as hard for her as for Ever¬ 
ard, who felt suddenly as if every ray of sunlight had 
been stricken from his life. With Rossie gone the world 
would be dark indeed, and for a few moments he used 
all his powers of eloquence to dissuade her from the 
plan, but she was quite resolved, and he understood it at 
last, and answered her: 

“ Perhaps you are right ; but Heaven pity me when 
you are gone 1” 


ROSAMOND'S DECISION. 


276 


For a moment Rosamond was silent, and then she 
said, in her usual frank way: 

“ Yes, Everard, I understand, or I think I do, and it 
would be foolish in me to pretend not to know ,—to be¬ 
lieve,—I mean,” and the bright color began to mount to 
Rossie’s cheeks as she went on: “I mean that I be¬ 
lieve you do care for me some,—that if I were dead you 
would remember me longer than any one else. I guess 
you like me a little, don’t you, Everard ?” 

It was the child Rossie,—the little girl of his boy¬ 
hood,—who spoke with all her old simple-heartedness of 
manner, but the face which looked up at the young man 
was not the face of a child, for there was written on it 
all a woman’s first tenderness and love, and the dark 
eyes were full of tears, and the parted lips quivered even 
after she ceased to speak, and sat looking at him as fear¬ 
lessly and as little abashed as she had looked at him 
when she asked to be his wife. And how could he 
answer that question so innocently put ? “ You do like 

me a little, don’t you, Everard ?” How, but to stoop and 
kiss the quivering lips which kissed him back again 
unhesitatingly, but when he sought to wind his arms 
around her, and hold her closely to him, she motioned 
him away, and said : “ No, Everard, you might kiss me 
once, and I might kiss you back, as we would do if either 
of us were dying, and it was our farewell to each other, 
as this is. I can never kiss you again, never; nor you 
me, nor say anything like what we have been saying. 
Remember that, Everard. The might have been is past, 
and when we meet, as we sometimes may, it will be on 
the old footing, as guardian and ward, or brother and 
sister, if you like that better. And now listen, while I 
finish telling you what my wishes are with regard to the 
future.” 

Rosamond’s was the stronger spirit then, and she 
compelled him to sit quietly by and hear her while she 
planned the future for him. Josephine was to live at 
Forrest House, and to receive a certain amount of in¬ 
come over and above the support which he would give 
her. But to this iasi he stoutly objected. Not one dol¬ 
lar of Rossie’s money should ever find its way to her, he 
said. He could support her with his profession, and if 
Rossie did net choose to use what was rightly her cwn it 


m 


ROSAMOND 1 S DECISION. 


would simply accumulate on her hands, without doing 
good to any one. 

So Rossie gave that project up, but insisted that she 
should vacate the house as soon as she was able, and 
leave Josephine in possession, and Everard was commit 
sioned to tell her so, and to say that she must excuse 
Miss Hastings from seeing her until she was stronger, 
and that she must feel perfectly at home, and free to 
ask for whatever she liked. 

At first Josie listened incredulously to Everard ; it 
seemed so improbable that Rossie would deliberately 
abandon her handsome home and give it up to her. 
Rut he succeeded in making her understand it at last, 
taking great care to let her know that she was to have 
nothing from the Forrest estate except the rent of the 
house ; that for everything else she was dependent upon 
him, who could give her a comfortable support, but 
allow nothing like luxury or extravagance. 

To this Josephine assented, and was gracious enough 
to say that it was very kind and generous in Miss Hast¬ 
ings, and to express a wish that she might see her and 
thank her in person. But to this Everard gave no en¬ 
couragement. Miss Hastings was very weak, he said, 
and had already been too much excited, and needed per 
feet quiet for the present. Of course, so long as she re¬ 
mained there she would be mistress of the house, and 
Josephine her guest. For himself, he should return to 
his old quarters in town, and only come to the house 
when it was necessary to do so on business. If Jose¬ 
phine was needing money, he had fifty dollars which he 
could give her now, and more would be forthcoming 
when that..was gone. 

Nothing could have been more formal than this inter¬ 
view between the husband and wife, and after it was 
over Josephine sat down to write to Mrs. Arnold in 
Europe, while Everard went boldly out to face the world 
waiting so eagerly for him. 



MATTERS ABE ADJUSTED. 


' s i 


CHAPTER XXXVII. 

MATTEES AEE ADJUSTED. 

Josephine had not known herself to be worse 
even than Everard had charged her with 
being, she might not have submitted so 
quietly to the line of conduct he proposed to 
pursue toward her, but the consciousness of 
misdeeds, known only to herself, made her manageable, 
and willing to accept the conditions offered her. Had 
Rosamond been allowed to give her a part of her income 
she would have taken it as something due to her, but as 
that was forbidden she was well satisfied with the house 
and its surroundings, and the support her husband could 
give her. To return to Holburton, after having an¬ 
nounced publicly that she was going to her husband, 
would have been a terrible mortification, and something 
which she declared to herself she would never have done, 
and so she resolved to make the most of the situation in 
Rothsay. To stand well with the people in town was 
her great object now, and to that end every art and 
grace of which she was capable was brought into requi¬ 
sition, and so well did she play her part that a few of 
the short-sighted ones, with Mrs. Dr. Rider at their head, 
espoused her cause and looked askance at Everard, who 
kept his own counsel, with the single exception of Law¬ 
yer Russell, to whom he told his story, and who assumed 
such an air of reserve and dignity that not even his most 
intimate friends dared approach him on the subject 
which was interesting every one so much. 

Everard knew that he was an object of suspicion and 
gossip, but cared little or nothing for it, so absorbed was 
he in his own trouble, and in watching the progress of 
affairs at the Forrest House, where Josephine was to all 
Intents and purposes the mistress, issuing her orders and 
expressing her opinions and wishes with far more free¬ 
dom than Rossie had ever done. She, too, was very re¬ 
ticent with regard to her husband, and when Mrs. Dr. 
Rider asked in a roundabout way what was the matter, 
she replied, in a trembling voice : 







MATTERS ARE ADJUSTED. 


27 8 

*' Oh, I don’t know, except he grew tired of me dut 
ing the years we were separated ; but please don’t talk 
to me about it, or let any one else, for I cannot speak of 
it,—it makes me so sick.” 

She did act as if she were going to faint, and Mrs. 
Rider opened the window and let in the cool air, and 
told Josephine to lean on her till she was better, and 
then reported the particulars of her interview so graph¬ 
ically and well that after a day or so everybody had 
heard that poor Mrs. Forrest, when asked as to the cause 
of the estrangement between herself and husband, had 
at once gone into hysterics and fainted dead away. Of 
course the curious ones were more curious than ever, 
and tried old Axie next, but she was wholly non-com¬ 
mittal, and bade them mind their business and let their 
betters alone. 

Rosamond was now the last hope, but she had nothing 
to say whatever, except that under the circumstances she 
felt that Mrs. Forrest at least ought to live at her hus¬ 
band’s old home, and that arrangements to that effect 
had been made. As for herself, it had been her inten¬ 
tion to teach for a long time, and as Mrs. Markham de¬ 
clared her competent, she was going to try it, and leave 
the place to Mrs. Forrest. Nothing could be learned 
from Rossie, who was too great a favorite with every one 
to become a subject of gossip ; and whatever might be 
the cause of the trouble between Everard and Josey, her 
spotless, innocent life was too well known for any cen¬ 
sure to fall on her, and Josephine could not have reached 
her by so much as a breath of calumny, had she chosen 
to try, which she did not. With her quick intuition she 
understood at once how immensely popular Rossie was, 
and resolving to be friends with her, if possible, she 
waited anxiously for a personal interview, which was ac¬ 
corded her at last, and the two met in Rossie’s room, 
where, in her character as invalid, Rossie sat in her easy- 
chair, with her beautiful hair brushed back from her 
pure, pale face, and her great, black eyes unusually bril» 
liant with excitement and expectation. 

Josephine, too, had been almost as nervous with regard 
to this interview as Rosamond herself, and had spent an 
hour over her toilet, which was perfect in all its details. 


MATTERS ARE ADJUSTED . 


279 


from die arrangement of her hair to her little high heeled 
slippers with the fanciful rosettes. 

Rosamond was prepared for something very pretty, 
but not as beautiful as the woman who came half hesi¬ 
tatingly, half eagerly, into the room, and stood before 
her with such a bright, winning smile upon her lovely 
face that it was hard to believe there was guile or artful¬ 
ness there. Rising to her feet Rossie offered her hand 
to her visitor, who took it and pressed it to her lips, 
while she said something about the great happiness it 
was to see one of whom she had heard so much. 

“ Why, I used actually to be half jealous of the Ros¬ 
sie Everard was always talking about,” she said, refer¬ 
ring to the past as easily and naturally as if no cloud had 
ever darkened her horizon, or come between her and the 
Everard who had talked so much of Rossie. 

When Josephine first entered the room Rossie was 
very pale, but at this allusion to herself and Everard 
there came a flush to her cheeks and a light to her eye 
which made Josephine change her mind with regard to 
her personal appearance. 

“ Nobody can ever call her a beauty,” she had said to 
herself at first, but as the interview progressed, and 
Rossie grew interested and earnest, Josephine looked 
vonderingly at her glowing face and large black eyes, 
which flashed and shone like stars, and almost bewildered 
md confused her with their brightness, and the way they 
had of looking straight at her, as if to read her inmost 
thoughts. 

It was impossible to suspect Rossie of acting or say¬ 
ing anything she did not mean, for her face was like a 
clear, faithful mirror, and after a little Josephine began 
to grow ill at ease in her presence. The bright black 
eyes troubled her a little when fixed so earnestly upon 
her, and she found herself wondering if they could pene¬ 
trate her inmost thoughts, and see just what she was. It 
was a singular effect which Rossie had upon this woman, 
whose character was one web of falsehoods and deceit, 
and who, in the presence of so much purity and inno¬ 
cence, and apparent trust in everybody, was conscious of 
some new impulse within her, prompting her to a better 
and sincerer life. Wondering how much Rossie knew of 
her antecedents, she suddenly burst out with: 


3 SO 


MATTIES A US ADJUSTED . 


“MissHastings, or Rossie,—Iso much wish you’d let 
me call you by the name I have heard so often. T want 
to tell you at*once how I have hated myself fox taking 
that money, the price of your lovely hair, and letting 
you believe I was a dreadful gambler, seeking Everard’s 
ruin.” 

She had her hand on the “lovely hair,” and was pars¬ 
ing her white lingers through it and letting it fall in 
curling masses about Rossie’s neck and shoulders, as she 
went on: 

“ It was such a funny mistake you made with regard 
to me, and it was wrong in me to take the money. I 
would not do it now ; but we were so poor, and I needed 
it so much, and Everard could not get it. Has he told 
you all about those times, I wonder, when we were first 
married, and he did love me a little.” 

“ He has told me a good deal,” was Rossie’s straight 
forward answer ; and sitting down upon a stool in front 
of her Josey assumed the attitude and manner of a child 
as she went on to speak of the past, and to beg Rossie 
to think as leniently of her as possible. 

“Men are not always correct judges of women’s 
actions,” she said, “ and I do not think Everard under¬ 
stands me at all. Our marriage in that hasty manner 
was unwise, but if I erred I surely have paid the severest 
penalty. Such things fall more heavily upon women 
than upon men, and I dare say you think better oi 
Everard this moment than you do of me.” 

Rossie could not say she didn’t, for there was some 
thing in Josephine’s maimer which she did not like 
it seemed to be all acting, and to cne who never acted 
a part, it was very distasteful. Rut she tried to evade 
the direct question by answering: “I have known Ever- 
ard so long that I must of course think better of him 
than of a stranger. He has been so kind to me then, 
wishing to turn the conversation into a channel where 
she felt she should be safer, she plunged at once into her 
plan of leaving the house to Josephine, saying that she 
had never thought it right for her to have it, and speak¬ 
ing of the judge’s last illness, when she was certain he 
repented of what he had done. 

At first Josephine made a very pretty show of pro¬ 
testing against it. 


MAT TEAS ARE ADJUS2ED. 


28 ? 


u It is youi own home,” she said, “ and though I ap¬ 
preciate your great kindness, I cannot feel that it is 
right to take it from you.” 

“ But I thought you understood that it was qaite a 
settled thing that I ana to go away, as I have always in¬ 
tended doing. Everard told you so. Surely he ex 
plained it to you ” Rossie said, in some surprise. 

Josephine did not quite know how to deal with a na¬ 
ture like Rossie’s, but she guessed that for once it would 
be necessary for her to say very nearly what she thought, 
and so for a few moments the two talked together earn¬ 
estly and soberly of the future, when Rossie would be 
gone and Josephine left in charge. 

“You will only be taking what is yours a little in ad¬ 
vance,” Rossie said, “ for when I am of age I shall deed 
it back to Everard ; and then, on the principle that what 
is a man’s is also his wife’s, it will be yours, and I hope 
that long before that it will be well with you and 
Everard ; that the misunderstanding between you will be 
cleared up ; that he will do right, and if,—if,—you are con¬ 
scious of any defect in your character which annoys him, 
you will overcome it and try to be what he would like 
his wife to be, for you might be so happy with him, if 
only you loved each other.” 

The great black eyes were full of tears, and Rossie’s 
face twitched painfully as she compelled herself to make 
this effort in Everard’s behalf. But it was lost on Jose- 
phine ? who, thoroughly deceitful and treacherous herself, 
could not believe that this young girl really meant what 
she said; it was a piece of acting to cover her real feel¬ 
ing, but she affected to be touched, and wiped her own 
eyes, and said despondingly that the time was past, she 
feared, the opportunity lost for her to regain her hus¬ 
band. He did not care for her any longer; his love was 
given to another, and she looked straight at Rossie, who 
neither spoke nor made a sign that she heard or under¬ 
stood, but she looked so very white and tired that Jose¬ 
phine arose to go, after thanking her again for her kind¬ 
ness and generosity, and assuring her that everything 
about the house should be kept just as she left it, and 
that in case she changed her mind after trying the life 
of a governess, and wished to return, she must do so 
without any reference to her convenience or pleasure. 


MATTERS ARE XUJUSTED. 


2S2 


And so the interview ended, and Josephine went 
back to her room and Agnes, to whom she said that she 
had found Miss Hastings rather pretty, and that she 
was on the whole a nice little body, and had acted very 
weil about the house, “though,” she added: 

“ I consider it quite as much mine as hers. That old 
man was crazy, or he would never have left everything 
to her, and he tried afterward to take it back, it seems, 
and right the wrong he had done. She told me all about 
it, and how his eyes followed her, and shut and opened 
as she talked to him. It made me so nervous to think of 
those eyes ; I believe they will haunt me forever. And 
Everard never told me that, but let me believe his father 
died just as angry w T ith him as ever. I tell you, Agnes, 
[ am beginning to hate that man quite as much as he 
hates me, and if I were sure of as comfortable a living 
and as good a position elsewhere as he can give me here, 
Pd sue for a divorce to-morrow, and get it, too, and 
then,—‘ away, away, to my love who is over the sea.’ ” 

She sang the last w T ords in a light, flippant tone, 
and then sat down to write to Dr. Matthewson, whose 
last letter, received before she left Europe, was still 
unanswered. 

Three weeks after this interview Rosamond left Roth- 
eay for St. Louis, where she was to be governess to 
Mrs. Andrews’ children on a salary of three hundred 
dollars a year. Everard and Josephine both went to 
the depot to see her off, the one driving down in the 
carriage with her, and making a great show of regret 
and sorrow, the other walking over from his office, and 
maintaining the utmost reserve and apparent indiffer¬ 
ence, as if the parting were nothing to him; but at the 
last, when he stood with Rossie’s hand in his, there came 
a look of anguish into his eyes, and his lips were deathly 
white as he said good-by and knew that all which made 
life bearable ta him was leaving him, forever. 



* WAITING AND WATCHING FQIl MEN 283 


CHAPTER XXXVHI. 

“waiting and watching for mb.” 

was the first of January when Rossie left 
Rothsay for St. Louis, and three weeks from 
that day a wild storm was sweeping over the 
hills of Vermont, and great clouds of sleet 
and snow went drifting down into the open 
grave in Bronson church-yard, toward which a little 
group of mourners was slowly wending its way. Nei¬ 
ther Florida skies nor Florida air had availed to restore 
life and health to poor wasted, worn-out Mollie Morton, 
although at first she seemed much better, and Trix 
and Bunchie, in their childish way, thanked God, who 
was making their mamma well, while the Rev. Theo¬ 
dore, in Boston, felt something like new hope within him 
at the cheerful letters Mollie wrote of what Florida was 
doing for her. But the improvement was only tempo¬ 
rary, and neither orange blossoms or southern sunshine 
could hold the spirit which longed so to be free, and 
which welcomed death without a shadow of fear. 

“ I have had much to make me happy,” Mollie said 
to Beatrice, one day, when that faithful friend sat by her 
holding the tired head upon her bosom, and gently 
smoothing the once black hair, which now was more 
than three-fourths gray, though Mollie was only thirty- 
one. “ Two lovely children, and the kindest, best hus¬ 
band in the world,—the man I loved and wanted so 
much, and who I think, likes me, and will miss me some 
when I am gone forever.” 

This she said, looking straight at Beat ice, whose face 
was very pale as she stooped to kiss the white forehead 
and answered: 

“ I am sure he will miss you, and so shall F, for I have 
learned to love you so much, and shall be so sorry when 
you are gone.” 

“Truly, truly, will you be sorry when I am dead ? I 
nardly thought anybody would be that but father and 

mother, and the children,” Mollie said, while the lips 





2«1 “ WAITING AND WATCHING FOR ME* 


quivered and the great tears rolled down her cheeks as 
she continued : “ We are alone now, for the last time it 
may be, and I want to say to you what has been in my 
heart to say, and what I must say before I die. When I 
was up in that dreary back room in New York, so sick, 
and forlorn, and poor, and you came to me, bright, and 

? ay, and beautiful, I did not like it at all, and for a time 
felt hard toward you and angry at Theodore, who, I 
knew, must see the difference between me,—faded, and 
plain, and sickly, and old before my time, and you, the 
woman he loved first,—fresh, and young, and full of life, 
and health, and beauty. How you did seem to fill the 
dingy room with brightness and beauty, and what a con¬ 
trast you were to me; and Theodore saw it, too, when he 
oame in and found you there. But if there was a regret 
in his heart,—a sigh for what ought to have been, he 
never let it appear, but after you were gone, and onty 
the delicate perfume of your garments lingered in the 
room, he came and sat by me and held my thin, hard 
hands, so unlike your soft white ones, and tried by his 
manner to make me believe he was not sorry, and when 
I could stand it no longer, and said to him: 4 I am not 
much like her, Theo, am I V he guessed what was in my 
mind, and answered me so cheerily, 4 No, Mollie, not 
a bit like her. And how can you be, when your lives 
have been so different; hers all sunshine, and yours full 
of care, and toil, and pain. But you have borne it 
bravely, Mollie; better, I think, than Bee would have 
done. 5 He called you Bee to me for the first time, and 
there was something in his voice, as he spoke the name, 
which told me how dear you had been to him once, if, 
indeed, you were not then. But he was so good, and 
kind, and tender toward me that I felt the jealousy 
giving way, though there was a little hardness left 
toward you, and that night after Theo was sleeping 
beside me I prayed and prayed that God would take it 
away, and He did, and I came at last to know you as you 
are, the dearest, noblest, most unselfish woman the world 
ever saw.” 

“ No, no, you must not say that. I am not good or 
unselfish; you don’t know me,” Bee cried, thinking re¬ 
morsefully of the times when she had ridiculed the brown 
alpaca dress and the woman who wore it, and how often 


“ WAITING AND WATCHING FOR ME” 286 


she had tired of her society, in which she really found no 
pleasure, such as she might have found elsewhere. 

But she could not wound her by telling her this. 
She could only protest that she was not all Mrs. Morton 
believed her to be. But Mollie would not listen. 

“ You must be good,” she said, “ or you we ald never 
have left your beautiful home and your friends and 
attached yourself to me, who am only a drag upon you. 
But sometime in the future you will be rewarded ; and, 
forgive me, Miss Belknap, if I speak out plain, now, like 
one who stands close down to the river of death, and, 
looking back, can see what probably will be. I do not 
know how you feel toward Theo, but of this I am sure, 
he has never taken another into the place you once filled, 
and at a suitable time after I am gone he will repeat the 
words he said to you years ago, and if he does, don’t 
send him away a second time. He is nearer to your 
standard now than he was then. He is growing all the 
time in the estimation of his fellow-men. They are 
going to make him a D. D., and the parish of which he 
is pastor is one of the best and most highly cultivated in 
Boston. And you will go there, I hope, and be a mother 
to my children, and bring them up like you, for that will 
please Theo better than my homely ways. Trix is like 
you now, and Bunchie will learn, though she is slower to 
imitate. You will be happy with Theo,—and I am glad for 
him and the children ; but you will not let them forget 
me quite, but will tell them sometimes of their mother, 
who loved them so much. I hoped to see Theo once 
more before I died, but something tells me he will not 
be here in time ; that when he comes I shall be dead. 
So you will ask him to forget the many times I worried 
and fretted him with my petty cares and troubles. Tell 
him that Mollie puts her arms around his neck and lays 
her poor head, which will never ache again, against his 
good, kind heart, and so bids him good-by, and goes 
away alone into the brightness beyond, for it is all bright 
and peaceful ; and just over the river I am crossing I 
seem to see the distant towers of 4 Jerusalem the Golden’ 
gleaming in the heavenly sunshine, which lies so warm 
upon the everlasting hills. And my babies are theie wait¬ 
ing and watching for me. Sing, can’t you, ( Will some one 
be at the beautiful gate, waiting and watching for me P’ n 


288 “ WAITING AND WATCHING FOR MX* 


There was too heavy a sorrow in Beatrice’s heart, 
and her voice was too full of tears for her to sing to 
the dying woman, who clung so closely to her. But 
what she could not do, little Trixey did for her. She 
had entered the room unobserved, followed by BuEchie* 
whose hands were full of the sweet wild-flowers they 
had gathered and brought to their mother, who wa# 
past caring for such things now. The yellow jessamine 
and wild honeysuckle lay unheeded upon her pillow, 
but at the sound of her children’s voices a spasm of 
intense pain passed for a moment over her face, and was 
succeeded by a smile of peace as she whispered again : 
“ Somebody sing of the beautiful gate,” and instantly 
Trixey’s clear voice rang through the room, mingled 
with little Bunchie’s lisping, broken notes, as she, too 
struck in and sang : 

“ Will any one be at the beautiful gate, 

Waiting and watching for me ?” 

Dear little ones, they did not know their mother was 
dying; but Beatrice did, and her tears fell like rain upon 
the pinched, white face pillowed on her arm, as she 
kissed the quivering lips, which whispered softly: 

“ Darling Trix and Bunehie,—God bless them !—and 
tell Theo Mollie will be at the beautiful gate, waiting 
and watching for him, and for you all,—waiting and 
watching as they now wait and watch for me over there, 
the shining ones, crowding on the shore, and some are 
there to whom I first told the story of Jesus in the far-off 
heathen land. Tell Theo they are there, and many whom 
he led to the Saviour. It is no delusion, as some have 
thought. I see them, I see into Heaven, and it is so 
near; it lies right side by side with this world, only a 
step between.” 

Her mind was wandering a little, for her words 
became indistinct, until her voice ceased altogether, and 
Beatrice watched her as the last great struggle went on 
and the soul parted from the body, which was occasion¬ 
ally convulsed with pain, as if it were hard to sever the 
tie which bound together the mortal and immortal. 

At last, just as the beautiful southern sunset flooded 
the river and the fields beyond with golden and rosy 
hues, and the fresh evening breeze came stealing into the 


“ WAITING AND WATCHING FOR MET m 


room, laden with the perfume of the orange and lemon 
blossoms it had kissed on its way, Mollie Morton passed 
from the world where she had known so much care to 
the life immortal, where the shining ones were waiting 
and watching for her. 

And far down the coast, threading in and out among 
the little islands and streams, came the boat whmh bore 
the Rev. Theodore Morton to the wife he hoped to find 
alive. Bee’s summons had found him busy with his 
people, with whom he was deservedly popular, and who 
bade him God-speed, and followed him with prayers for 
his own safety, and, if possible, the recovery of his wife, 
whom they had never seen. But this last was not to be, 
and when about noon the boat came up to its accustomed 
landing-place, and Bee stood on the wharf to meet him, 
he knew by one glance at her face that he had come too 
late. Everything which love could devise was done foi 
the dead, on whose white face the husband’s tears fell 
fast when he first looked upon it, feeling, it may be, an 
inner consciousness of remorse as he remembered that 
all his heart had not been given to her. But he had 
been kind, and tender, and considerate, and he folded her 
children in his arms, and felt that in all the world there 
was nothing so dear to him as his motherless little ones. 

The next day they left Florida for the bleak hills of 
Vermont, where the wintry winds and drifting snow 
seemed to howl a wild requiem for the dead woman, 
whose body rested one night in the old home where the 
white-haired father and mother wept so piteously over 
it, and even Aunt Nancy forgot to care for the tracks 
upon her clean kitchen floor, as the villagers came in 
with words of condolence and sympathy. Beatrice was 
with the mourners who stood by the grave that wild 
January day when Mollie Morton was buried, and she 
gave the message from the dead to the husband, who 
wept like a child when he saw his wife laid away under 
the blinding snow T , which, ere the close of the day, cov¬ 
ered the grave in one great mountain drift. 

Both Everard and Rossie had written to Beatrice 
telling her of Josephine’s arrival at the Forrest House, 
and, with a feeling that she w’as needed in Rothsay, she 
started for home the day after Mollie’s funeral. 


m 


HOW THE TIDE EBBED 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 

HOW THE TIDE EBBED AND FLOWED IN 
LOTHSAY. 

OBEPHINE had resolved to be popular at any 
cost, and make for herself a party, and so 
good use had she made of her time and op¬ 
portunities that when Beatrice arrived the 
weaker ones, who, with Mrs. Rider at their 
head, had from the first espoused her cause, were grad¬ 
ually gaining in numbers; while the better class of people, 
Everard’s friends, were beginning to think more kindly 
of the lady of the Forrest House, where an entire new 
state of tilings and code of laws had been inaugurated. 
Axie had, of course, vacated immediately after Rossie’s 
departure, and Josephine had been wise enough not to 
ask her to remain. She knew the old negress was 
strongly prejudiced against her, and was glad when she 
departed, bag and bundle, for the little house she had 
purchased in town, where she could be near “ her boy,” 
and wash and mend his clothes, and fight for him when 
necessary, as it sometimes w T as, for people could not 
easily understand hio indifference to the beautiful crea¬ 
ture who was conducting herself so sweetly and mod¬ 
estly, and whom women ran to the windows to see 
when she drove by in the pretty phaeton which, through 
Rossie’s influence, she had managed to get from Everard, 
or rather, from the Forrest estate. It is true the horse 
did not suit her. It was too old and slow, and not at all 
like the spirited animal she used to drive with Captain 
Bparks at her side in Holburton, but it was an heir-loom ,, 
as she called it, laughingly, raised from a stock of horses 
vdiieh had been in the family for years, and was so 
rtoady that Mr. Forrest was perfectly willing to trust 
her with it ; and each day she drove around the town, 
showing herself everywhere, bowing to everybody high 
and low, and because she had heard that Miss Belknap 
used to do so, taking to drive the sick and infirm among 
the poor and needy, to whom she was all kindness and 
sympathy. With this class, however, she did not stand 







AND FLOWED IN ROTHS AY. 


289 


as well as with the grade above them. It would almost 
seem as if they were gifted with a special insight, and 
read her character aright; and though they accepted 
what she offered them, they did not believe in her, and 
privately among themselves declared she was not a lady 
born,—or a fitting wife for Everard. 

Agnes never appeared with her in public, and was 
seldom seen at the house when people called. “ She was 
very shy and timid, and shrank from meeting strangers,” 
Josephine sail, to the few who felt that they must ask 
for her, and who accepted the excuse and left Agnes 
free to become in Rothsay what she had been in Hol- 
burton, a mere household drudge, literally doing all the 
work for the colored woman whom Josephine employed 
and called her cook, but who was wholly incompetent as 
well as indisposed to work. So the whole care devolved 
on Agnes, who took up her burden without a word of 
protest, and worked from morning till night, while Jose¬ 
phine lounged in her own room, where she had her meals 
more than half the time, or drove through the town in 
her phaeton, managing always to pass the office where 
Everard toiled early and late, in order that he might 
have the means to support her without touching a dollar 
of Rossie’s fortune. 

As yet Josephine’s demands upon him were not very 
great. Old Axie had been a provident housekeeper, and 
Josephine found a profusion of everything necessary for 
the table. Her wardrobe did not need replenishing, and 
she could not venture upon inviting company so soon, 
consequently she was rather moderate in her demands 
for money; but Everard knew the time would come when 
all he had would scarcely satisfy her, and for that time 
he worked, silently, doggedly, rarely speaking to any one 
outside his business unless they spoke to him, and never 
offering a word of explanation with regard to the 
estrangement, which was becoming more and more a 
matter of wonder and comment,—as people saw only 
sweetness and graciousness in Josey, and knew nothing 
of her other side. 

Such was the state of affairs when Beatrice came 
home, very unexpectedly to the Eothsayit.es, who won¬ 
dered what she would think of matters at the Forrest 
House. Josephine had spoken frequently of Miss Bel- 


290 


now THE TIDE EBBED 


knap, who, she said, was for a few weeks ari inmate "f hex 
mother’s family*, and whom she admired greatly. Josey 
was the first to call upon Beatrice ; and throwing herself 
upon her neck, burst into tears, saying : 

“ Oh, Miss Belknap, I am so glad you have come to 
be my friend and sister, and I need one so much. 1 
wish I had told you the truth when you were in Hob 
burton, but Everard was afraid of having it known, and 
now he is so cold and distant and I,—am,—so unhappy. 
You will be my friend and help me. You were always 
so kind to me, and I liked you so much.” 

Beatrice sliook her off as gently as possible, and 
answered that she should certainly try to do right, 
and asked after Agnes, and how her visitor liked Roth- 
say, and if Rosamond had written to her, and gradually 
drew the conversation away from dangerous ground, 
and did it in such a manner that Josephine felt that she 
had more to fear from Bee Belknap than from all the 
world besides. And she had, for Bee’s opinion was 
worth more than that of any twenty people in Roth- 
say; and when it was known that there was little or no 
intercourse between Elm Park and the Forrest House, 
that the two ladies were polite to each other and noth¬ 
ing more, that Beatrice never expressed herself with 
regard tc Mrs. Forrest or mentioned her in any way, 
but was on the same friendly terms with Everard as ever, 
and when, as a crowning act, she made a little dinner 
party from which Josephine was omitted, the people 
who had been loudest in Josey’s praises began to whisper 
together that there must be something wrong, and grad¬ 
ually a cloud not larger than a man’s hand began to 
show itself on the horizon. But small as it was, Jose¬ 
phine discovered its rising, and fought it with all her 
power, even going so far as to insinuate that jealousy 
and disappointment were the causes of Miss Belknap’s 
coolness toward her. But this fell powerless and dead, 
and Josey could no more injure Beatrice than she could 
turn the channel of the river from its natural course. 
For a time, however, Josephine held her ground with a 
few, but when early in June the new hotel on the river 
road was filled with people from the South, many of 
them gay, reckless young men, ready for any excite¬ 
ment, she began to show her real nature, and her assumed 


AJW FLOWED IN Morns AY. 


291 


anode sly and reticence slipped from her like a garment 
unfitted to the wearer. How she managed it no one 
could guess, but in less than two weeks she knew svery 
young man stopping at the Belknap House, as it was 
named in honor of Beatrice, and in less than three weeks 
she had taken them all to drive with her, and Forrest 
House was no longer lonely for want of company, for 
the doors stood open till midnight, and young men 
lounged on the steps and in the parlors, and came to 
lunch and dinner, and the rooms were filled with cigar- 
Bmoke, and Bacchanalian songs were sung by the half- 
tipsy young men, and toasts were drank to their fair 
hostess, whom they dubbed “ Golden Hair,” and called 
an angel to her face, and at her back, among themselves, 
a briclc, and even “ the old girl,” so little did they respect 
or really care for her. 

And Josephine was quite happy again, and content. 
It suited her better to be fast than to play the part of a 
quiet, discreet woman, and so long as she did not over¬ 
step the bounds of decency, or greatly outrage the rules 
of propriety, she argued that it was no one’s business 
what she did or how much attention she received. As 
Axie had predicted, the real color was showing through 
the whitewash, and people began to understand the reason 
why Everard was becoming so grave, and reserved, and 
even old in his appearance, with a look upon his face 
such as no ordinary trouble could ever have written 
there. 

And so the summer waned and autumn came and 
went, and then Josephine, who, while affecting to be so 
merry and gay, writhed under the slights so often put upon 
her, discovered that she needed a change of air, and de¬ 
cided that a winter in Florida was necessary to her 
health and happiness, and applied to Everard for the 
means with which to carry out her plan. At first 
Everard objected to the Florida trip as something much 
more expensive than he felt able to meet, but his consent 
was finally given, and one morning in December the 
clerk at the St. James Hotel, in Jacksonville, wrote upon 
his books “ Mrs. J. E. Forrest and maid, and Miss Agnes 
Fleming, Hothsay, Ohio,” while a week later there 
was entered upon another page, “ Dr. John Matthewson, 


292 


DR. MAT TEE V/S ON ’ JS GAME. 


New York City,” and two weeks later still “Mrs. An¬ 
drews and family, and Miss Rosamond Hastings, St* 
Louis, Mo.” 


CHAPTER XL. 

DE. MATTHEWSON’S GAME. 

HE St. James was full that season, and when 
Mrs. J. E. Forrest arrived slie found every 
room occupied, and was compelled to take 
lodgings at a bouse across the Park, where 
guests from the hotel were sometimes accom¬ 
modated with rooms, and where, in addition to her own 
parlor and bedroom, she found a large square chamber, 
which she asked the mistress of the house to reserve for 
a few days, as she was expecting an old friend of her 
husband’s, and would like to have him near her, inasmuch 
as Mr. Forrest was not able to come with her on account 
of his business. Later in the season he might join her, 
but now he was too busy. She laid great stress upon 
having a husband, and she was so gracious, and affable, 
and pretty, that her landlady, Mrs. Morris, was charmed 
at once, and indorsed the beautiful woman who at¬ 
tracted so much attention in the street, and who at the 
hotel took everything by storm. She had laid aside her 
mourning, and blossomed out in a most exquisite suit of 
navy-blue silk and velvet, which, although made in Paris 
more than a year before, was still a little in advance of 
the Florida fashions, and was admired by every lady in 
the hotel, and patterns of the pocket, and cuffs, and over¬ 
skirt were mentally taken and experimented upon in the 
ladies’ rooms, where the grace, and beauty, and probable 
antecedents of the stranger were freely discussed. 

Nobody had ever heard of Mrs. J. E. Forrest, and few 
had heard of Rothsay,but there were some people at the St. 
James, this winter, who remembered Miss Belknap and 
Mrs. Morton, and when it was known that Mrs. Forrest 
was their friend the matter was settled, and Josephine 
became the belle and beauty of the place. Toung men 









DU. MA i G AM, 3. 


293 


stationed themselves near the door through which she 
oame in to the hall to look at her as she passed, but if she 
was conscious of their homage she made no sign, and 
never seemed to know how much attention she was at¬ 
tracting. One or two ladies spoke to her at last as she 
stopped for a while in the parlor, and so her acquaintance- 
began, and Miss Belknap was brought to the surface, and 
Mr. Forrest was talked about, and a little hacking cough 
was produced, by way of showing what had sent this 
dainty, delicate creature away from her husband, with 
no other guardianship than that of her sister. But 
Agnes’ presence was sufficient to save appearances. She 
was much older, and so quiet and reserved, and even 
shy, that the ladies made no advances to her, and after a 
little scarcely noticed her as she sat apart from them, 
waiting patiently till her brilliant sister was ready to go 
home. Josephine was expecting a gentleman friend, 
whom she had known ever since she was a young girl, 
she said, the fourth day after her arrival, and the ladies 
were glad, as it would be so much pleasanter for her in 
her husband’s absence ; and so matters were made easy 
for the coming of Dr. Matthewson, who, since parting 
from Josephine in Dresden, more than a year before, had 
visited nearly every city of note in Europe, sometimes 
meeting with success in his profession as gambler and 
sometimes not, sometimes living like a millionaire and 
sometimes like a beggar. The millionaire life suited him 
the best, but how to secure it as a permanency, or even 
to secure a comfortable living which required neither 
exertion nor self-denial, was something which puzzled 
him sorely, until he received a letter from Josephine, 
which inspired him at once with fresh courage and hope. 
The letter, which was written from the Forrest House, 
was a long time in reaching him, and found him at last 
in Moscow, where his genius of bad luck was in the 
ascendant, and he had fallen into the toils of a set of 
sharpers, who were using him for their own base pur¬ 
poses. Handsome in face and form, winning in his man 
ner, and perfectly familiar with nearly every language 
spoken on the Continent, he was very useful to them by 
way of bringing under their influence strangers who 
visited the city, and they kept a hold upon him which he 
could not well shake off. 



394 Mi. MAITHEWSGJTS GAME. 

When he received Josephine’s letter telling him 
where she was, and the disposition Judge Forrest had 
made of his property, and Rosamond’s determination 
not to use more of it than was absolutely necessary, but 
to restore it to Everard when she came of age, he made 
up his mind to leave Moscow at all hazards, and, cross¬ 
ing the sea, seek out the sister in whom lie suddenly 
found himself greatly interested. And to this end for¬ 
tune favored him at last by sending in his way a German 
Jew,—Van Schoisner,—between whom and himself there 
sprang up a friendship which finally resulted in the Jew’s 
loaning him money enough to escape from the city which 
had been in one sense a prison to him. Van Schoisner 
was his compagnon-du-voyage, and as both were gam¬ 
blers, they made straight for Vienna, where Matthew- 
son’s luck came back to him, and he won so rapidly and 
largely that Van Schoisner, who was tinged with German 
superstition, regarded him as one whom the god of the 
gaming-table especially favored, and clung to him and 
made much of him, and when a malarial fever attacked 
him took him to his brother’s, a Dr. Van Schoisner, who 
kept what he called a private maison-de-saiUe , in an 
obscure Austrian town, half way between Vienna and 
Lintz. 

And here Dr. Matthewson paid the penalty of his 
dissipated life in a fit of sickness which lasted for 
months, and left him weak and feeble as a child. Dur¬ 
ing all this time he did not hear from Josephine, whose 
letters never reached him, and he knew nothing of her 
until he reached New York, when he wrote at once to 
her at Rothsay, asking very particularly for Rosamond, 
and announcing his intention of visiting the Forrest 
House, if agreeable to the inmates. 

To this letter Josephine replied immediately, telling 
him not on any account to come to Rothsay, but to join 
her in Florida about the middle of December, when she 
would tell him everything which had happened to her 
since their last meeting in Dresden. In a postscript she 
added : 

“Miss Hastings is not here, and has not been since 
last January. She is somebody’s governess, I believe.” 

And it was this postscript which interested the doctor 
more than the whole of Josephine’s letter. If Rosamond 


DR. HATTUEWSON'8 GAME. 


290 


were not in Rothsay, then where was she, and how should 
he find her ? for find her he must, and play the xole of 
the loving brother, which role woulcl be all the more 
effective, he thought, because of the air of invalidism 
there was about him now, and which sat well upon him. 
He leally was weak from his recent illness, but he 
affected more languor than he felt, and seemed quite 
tired and exhausted when he reached the house wnere 
Josephine was stopping, and where his room was in read¬ 
iness for him ; and Josephine cooed and fluttered about 
him, and was glad to see him, and so anxious that he 
should have every possible attention. 

And Dr. Matthewson enjoyed it all to the full and 
was never tired of hearing of the Forrest House, or of 
asking questions about Rosamond, of whom Joseyat last 
affected to be jealous. 

And so the days went on until the first week in Jan¬ 
uary, when one morning, as the doctor and Josephine sat 
together on the long piazza of the hotel, a carriage from 
the boat arrived, laden with trunks, and children, and 
two ladies, one middle-aged, and apparently the mother 
of the children, the other, young, graceful, and pretty, 
even in her soiled traveling-dress of dark gray serge. 
As she threw back her vail and descended from the car¬ 
riage Josephine started suddenly, and exclaimed : 

“Rosamond Hastings, for all the world! What 
brought her here ?” 

“ Who ? Where ? Do you mean that girl with the 
blue vail and gray dress, and,—by Jove, those magnifi¬ 
cent eyes ?” Dr. Matthewson said, as Rosamond turned 
her face in the direction where he was sitting, and 
glanced rapidly at the groups of people upon the piazza, 
without, however, seeing any one distinctly. 

“ Yes, that’s Rosamond,” Josey replied, with a feeling 
of annoyance at the arrival of one who might work her 
so much harm. “ I’ll see her at once, and make that mat¬ 
ter right,” she thought, and trusting to Robsie’s good 
nature and her ingenuity, she resumed her conversation 
with the doctor, who seemed unusually silent and absent- 
minded, and after a little excused himself, saying he was 
not feeling quite well, and believed he’d take a sail on 
the river, and see if the fresh air would not revive hirm 

Usually Josephine had been his companion in his 


£30 


HOW TEE GAME WAS ELATED. 


sails on tilts river, but he did not ask her to go with him 
now. He preferred to be alone, and with a gracious 
bow he walked away, not so much to try the river air as 
to think over and perfect his plans for the future. 

“By George !” he said to himself, “this is what J 
call luck. Here I’ve been wondering how I should find 
the girl, and behold, she has dropped suddenly upon me, 
and if I play tny cards well the game is mine, and her 
money too, or my name is not Matthewson, ne Hastings, 
ne villain of the iirst water.” 


CHAPTER XLI. 

HOW THE GAME WAS PLAYED. 

OSAMOND’S life as a governess had been a 
very happy one, but still there was always 
present with her a consciousness of pain 
and loss,—a keen regret and intense longing 
for the “ might have been,” and a great pity 
for Everard, whose lot she knew was so much harder to 
bear than her own; for with him the burden was growing 
heavier, and the chain ever lengthening, which bound 
him to his fate. He had written to her frequently during 
the past year, friendly, brotherly letters, such as Jose¬ 
phine might have read without just cause of complaint. 
But he had given way once, and in a moment when his 
sky was very dark, had poured out his soul in passionate, 
burning words, telling how dreary life was to him with¬ 
out her, and asking if she could not bring herself to 
think that the divorce he could so easily get was valid, 
and would free him from the hateful tie which bound 
him ? 

And Rosamond had answered him, “ Only God can 
free you from the bond,” and had said he must never 
write like that to her again if he wished her to answer 
him ; and so the last hope was crushed, and Everard took 
up his load once more and tried to hear it more manfully, 
and by a closer attention to his practice to forget the 








now 2 


GAME WA S FLA YED. 


2r 


bliss which might have been his had he not rashly thrown 
the chance away. Rossie had said to him in her letter, 
“ Pray, Everard, as I do ; pray often, that you may 
learn to think of me as only your sister, the little Rossie 
who amused you and whom you liked to tease.” 

But Everard did not pray. On the contrary, he was 
in a most resentful and rebellious frame of mind, and 
blamed the Providence which had permitted him to go 
so far astray. It was well enough for women to pray, 
and those who had never been tried and tempted as he 
had been, but for himself, he saw no justice in God’s 
dealings with him, and he could not ask to be content 
with what he loathed from his very soul, he wrote in 
reply to Rossie, who, while he grew harder and more 
reckless, was rapidly developing into a character sweeter 
and lovelier than anything Everard had known. And 
the new life and principle within her showed itself 
upon her face, which was like the face of Murillo’s 
sweetest Madonna, where the earthly love blends so har¬ 
moniously with the divine, and gives a glorious and 
saintly expression to the lovely countenance. But Ros- 
sie’s health had suffered from this constant sense of pain 
and loss. The bright color was gone from her cheeks 
save as it came and went with fatigue or excitement, 
and there was about her a frail, delicate look, wholly 
unlike the child Rossie, who used to be so full of life 
and vigor in the old happy days at the Forrest House. 
Still, she complained of nothing except that she was 
always tired, but this was, in Mrs. Andrews’ mind, a suffi¬ 
ciently alarming symptom, and it was as much on Ros- 
sie’s account as on her own that she planned the trip to 
Florida, where she hoped the warm sunlight would 
bring strength again to the girl whom she loved almost 
as a daughter. 

And so they were at the St. James, where Mrs. An¬ 
drews found several acquaintances, but Rossie saw no 
one whom she knew, and as she had a severe headache 
she kept her room, and did not appear until the second 
day, when she dressed herself and went down to join 
Mrs. Andrews on the piazza, where the guests usually 
congregated in the morning. There was a crowd of them 
there now, and Mrs. Andrews, who was very popular and 
entertaining, was already the center of a group of friends, 

13 * 


298 


HOW THE GAME WAS PLATED. 


with whom she was talking, when Rosamond appeared, 
and made her way towards her. Everybody turned 
to look after her, and none more eagerly than Dr. Mat- 
thewson, who stood leaning against the railing, and 
waiting for Josephine to join him. He had watched 
for Rossie all the preceding day, after her arrival, and 
£el , greatly disappointed at her non-appearance, but he 
knew she was there, his half-sister, and the heiress to 
hundreds of thousands, and, as he believed, of a nature 
which he could mold as he would clay, if he could only 
know just what her tastes were, and adapt himself to 
them. As yet he had been quite non-committal, only 
devoting himself to Josephine, and talking very little 
with any one, so that he could, if necessary, become a 
saint or a sinner, and not seem inconsistent. Probably 
he would have to be a saint, he thought; and when at 
last Rossie appeared, and passed so near to him that he 
might have touched her, he was quite sure of it. Girls 
with the expression in their faces which hers wore didn’t 
believe in slang and profanity, and the,many vices to 
which he was addicted, and of which Josephine made so 
light. Rossie was pure and innocent, and must never 
suspect the black catalogue of sins at which he some¬ 
times dared not look. How fair and lovely she was, with 
that sweet modesty of demeanor which never could 
have been feigned for the occasion; and how eagerly 
the doctor watched her as she joined Mrs. Andrews, and 
was introduced to the ladies around her. 

“ Good-morning. A penny for your thoughts,” was 
cooed in his ear, and turning, he met Josephine’s blue 
eyes uplifted to him, and Josephine herself stood there 
in her very prettiest white wrapper, with an oleander 
blossom in her golden hair. 

She, too, had watched anxiously for Rosamond, 
whom she meant to secure before any mischief could 
be done, and she saw her now at once in the distance, 
and saw the doctor was looking in that direction, too, 
and knew, before she asked him, of what he was think¬ 
ing. But a slight frown darkened her face at his frank 
reply: 

“ I am thinking how very pretty and attractive Miss 
Hastings i.->. Yon must manage to introduce me as soon 
as possible, or I shall introduce myself.” 


HOW THE GAME WAS PLATED . 


2 Ste 


Just then Rossie turned her face fully toward her, 
and their eyes met in recognition. There was a violent 
start on Rossie’s part, and the blood flamed into her 
cheeks for an instant and then left them ashy pale, as 
she saw the woman for whom she could not have much 
respect smiling so brightly upon her r and advancing to 
meet her as quickly and gladly as if they were the great¬ 
est friends. 

“ Oh, Miss Hastings !” she said, in her most flute-like 
tones, “ this is a surprise. I am so glad to see you. 
When did you come ?” 

Rossie explained when she had come and with whom, 
and after a few brief remarks on the town and the cli¬ 
mate, made as if she would return to Mrs. Andrews; but 
now was Josephine’s opportunity or never, and still 
holding Rossie’s hand, which she had not relinquished, 
she said : 

“ Come with me a moment, please ; there are so many 
things I want to say. Suppose we take a little turn on 
the piazza,” and leading Rossie around the corner of the 
hotel to a seat where no one was sitting, she plunged at 
once into the subject uppermost in her mind. 

“ Miss Hastings,” she said, “ yon alone of all the 
people here know just how I am living with Everard, or, 
rather, not living with him. It was not necessary for 
me to explain everything, and for aught they know to 
the contrary, I have the most devoted of husbands, who 
may join me any day. You, of course, can undeceive 
them if you like, but-” 

“ Mrs. Forrest,” Rossie exclaimed, “ I have no wish 
to injure you. If I am asked straightforward questions 
I must tell the truth ; otherwise I have nothing to say of 
your life at home, or of anything in the past pertaining 
to you and Everard.” 

“Thank you so much. I knew I could trust you,” 
Josephine said, feeling immensely relieved. “ And now 
come, let me present you to a friend whom I used to 
know in Holburton, and met afterward in Dresden. lie 
is here for his health, and is so kind to Aggie and me. 
You must come to my room and see Agnes. She never 
stops a moment here after she has had her meals.” 

She talked rapidly and excitedly, and laid her hand on 
Rossie’s arm, as if to lead her to Dr. Matthewson, who 



SCO HOW TEL GAEL WAS PLAYED. 

forestalled the intention by suddenly appearing before 
them. He was more impatient to speak to Rosamond 
than Josephine was to have him, and joined them for 
that very purpose. Never in his life had he seemed 
more at his ease or appeared to better advantage, and 
there was something very winning and gracious in his 
manner as he bowed to Miss Hastings, and hoped she 
found herself well in the delicious Florida air. 

“ You do not look very strong,” he said. “ I hope a 
few days of this sunshine will do you much good.” He 
was very kind and considerate, and bade her be seated 
again while he talked with her a few moments on indif¬ 
ferent topics. Then, consulting his watch, he said to 
Josephine : “ Mrs. Forrest, don’t you think we should 

have that game of croquet before the day gets hotter? 
You see they are beginning to occupy the grounds al 
ready,” and he nodded toward the opposite side of the 
park, where a group of young ladies and gentlemen were 
...nocking about the balls preparatory to a game. “ To 
morrow we shall ask you to join us,” he said to Rossie, 
“ but as a physician, I advise you to rest to-day after your 
long journey. Coming suddenly into this climate is apt 
to debilitate if one is not careful. Good-morning, Miss 
Hastings,” and with a graceful wave of his hand he 
walked away with Josephine, leaving Rosamond to look 
after and admire his splendid physique and manly form, 
and to think what a pleasant, gentlemanly person he was, 
with such a melodious voice. 

Already he was beginning to affect and influence her 
thoughts, and she sat and watched him as he walked 
very slowly toward the croquet-ground, where, instead 
of joining in the game, he sat down at some little dis¬ 
tance and continued his conversation with Josephine, 
whose cheeks were flushed and who seemed unusually 
excited. 

The doctor’s first remark to her as they left the hotel 
had been : 

“ Well, Joe, did ^ou fix it all right with her ?” 

“ Fix what ?” Josephine asked, knowing perfectly 
well what he meant, but being determined that he should 
explain. 

“ Why, have you hired her not to go hack on you. 


HOW THE GAME WAS PLAYED. 


301 


and tell that you are a grass widow ;nstead of a loving 
wife, whose husband is pining in her absence?” 

The elegant doctor could be very coarse and unfeel¬ 
ing when he talked with Josephine, whom he understood 
bo well, and who replied : 

“If you mean will she hold her tongue about my 
affairs, she will, and she does not know that you are the 
‘priest all shaven and shorn, who married the youth all 
tattered and Urn to the maiden all forlorn.’ I did not 
think it necessary to tell her that. Possibly, though, she 
may have heard your name from Everard ; I do not 
know how that may be. I only told her that I knew 
you in Holburton, and that 1 met you again in Dresden.” 

“ Yes the doctor smoothed his mustache thought 
fully a moment, and then added : “I say, Joe, don’t be 
in such a hurry to get to the croquet. I want to talk 
with you. I’ve turned a new leaf. I’ve reformed. 
That time I was so sick in Austria, I repented. I did. 
upon my soul, and said a bit of a prayer,—and I believe 
I’ll join the church again ; but first I’ll confess to you. 
who I know will be as lenient toward me as any one. 
I suppose you think you know just what and who I am. 
but you are mistaken. I am a hypocrite, a rascal, a 
gambler, and have broken every Commandment, I do 
believe, except ‘ thou shaft not kill,’ and under great 
provocation I might do that, perhaps ; and, added to all 
this, I am Rossie Hastings’ half-brother.” 

“ Rossie Hastings’ brother ! Do you mean you are 
Rosamond’s brother ? and did you know it when you 
first came to Holburton, and why isn’t your name Hast¬ 
ings, then ?” Josephine asked, excitedly, and he replied, 
in the most quiet and composed manner : 

“ One question at a time, my dear. I am her brother, 
and my name was Hastings once,“John Matthewson 
Hastings. I took the Matthewson and dropped the 
Hastings to please a relative, who left me a few thou¬ 
sands at her death. I did know Rossie was my sister 
when I first met Everard Forrest in Holburton, and to 
that knowledge you owe your present exalted position as 
his wife.” 

She turned her eyes inquiringly upon him, and he 

continued : 


302 


ROW THE GAME WAS ELATED. 


“ I told you I was going to make a clean breast of 
my sins, and I am, so far as your business is concerned. 
I hated Everard and the whole Forrest race, and that was 
my revenge !” 

“Hated Everard! For what? Had you seen him 
before you met him in Holburton ?” Josephine said; and 
he replied : 

“ Yes, I had seen him, and I carried the marks of our 
meeting for weeks and weeks on my icrehead, and the 
remembrance of it in my heart always. I had a step¬ 
mother,—a weak young thing whom I hated from the 
first, for no special reason that I now recall, except that 
she was a step-mother and I thought I must hate her; 
and I did, and worried her life almost out of her ; and 
when a baby sister was born I hated that, because it was 
hers, and because it would naturally share in my father’s 
property, which was not large. The new mother was 
luxurious in her tastes, and spent a great deal, and that 
made trouble between her and my father, who, though a 
very elegant man in public, was the very Old Nick at 
home, and led his young wife such a life that even 1 
pitied her sometimes, and did not wonder that she left him 
at last, and took refuge with her intimate friend, Mrs. 
Forrest, Everard’s mother. Not long after she left 
home my father died, and I was made very angry be* 
cause of some money he left to Rossie, which I thought 
ought to be mine, inasmuch as it came to him from my 
mother. So I persecuted my mother-in-law, who, 1 
believe, was more afraid of me than of the old Harry 
himself. I went to the Forrest House and demanded 
first to see her, and then to see my sister, pretending I 
was going to take her away. The boy Everard was at 
home, had just come in from riding, and he ordered me 
from the house, and when I refused to go the stripling 
attacked me with his whip, and laid the blows on well, 
too, especially the one on my face, the mark of which I 
carried so long. I swore I’d have revenge on him, and I 
kept my word, though at one time I gave up the idea 
entirely. That was at the camp-meeting, where a lot of 
them converted me, or thought they did, and for a speli 
I felt differently, and got a license to preach, and tried to 
bo good; but the seed was sown on stony ground and 


HOW THE GAME WAS PLATED. 


308 


came to nothing, and I took seven spirits worse than the 
first, and backslid and quit the ministry, and went to 
studying physic, and was called doctor, and roamed the 
world over, sometimes with plenty of money, sometimes 
with none, and drifted at last to Holburton, where you 
asked me to be the priest in the play, and marry you to 
Everard Forrest. You probably do not remember how 
closely I questioned you about the young man. I wished 
to be certain with regard to his identity, and I was after 
talking with him about his home in Rothsay. He told 
me of Rossie, and boasted of the whipping he had given 
her brother, whose vengeance he did not fear. He was 
young. His father was rich, and proud as Lucifer, and 
would hardly think a princess good enough to marry his 
only son, much less you, the daughter of his landlady. 

“ Something told me I could not do Everard a worse 
turn than to tie him fast in matrimony. You were not 
his stamp ; not the one to hold him long ; he would re¬ 
pent the act sooner or later, while his father would make 
life a burden to him when he came to know it. So I 
was particular to leave nothing undone which would 
make the marriage valid, and when you were man and 
wife I felt perfectly happy, until,—I began to get in¬ 
terested in you myself, and then I sometimes wished my 
tongue had been cut out, for I’ll be hanged if I don’t 
admire you more than any woman I ever saw, notwith¬ 
standing that I know you like a book.” 

“ Spare your compliments and keep to your story, 
and tell me why you have made no effort to see Rossie 
all these years,” Josephine said, coldly ; and he replied, 
“Reason enough. I was not particularly interested in 
her then, and did not think an acquaintance with her 
would pay ; but later she has come before me in the 
character of an heiress, which makes her a very different 
creature ; you see, don’t you ?” 

“Yes, I see. Your sudden interest in her is wholly 
mercenary. Suppose I should betray you? Are you 
not afraid of it ?” Josephine asked, and in her blue 
eyes there was a look which the doctor did not quite 
like ; but he affected not to see it, and replied, “Afraid ? 
No, because telling is a game two can play at as well 
as one. You cannot afford to quarrel with me, Joe.” 


804 


HOW THE GAME WAS PLAYED . 


The man’s face was exceedingly insolent and die* 
agreeable in its expression for a moment, while. he 
glanced sidewise at his companion, who made no sign 
that she heard him, but seemed wholly intent upon the 
game, which was now growing very exciting. But when 
the expression changed, and he continued in his most 
winning tone : 

“No, we must stick to each other, and whatever good 
comes to me I’ll share religiously with you she began 
faintly to comprehend him, and turning her eyes upon 
him, said: 

“Well, to return to first principles, Rossie is inter¬ 
esting to you now because she has money; but she will 
not use it even for herself.” 

“No !”—and the doctor mused thoughtfully a mo¬ 
ment ; then he said : “I like the girl’s appearance, upon 
my soul I do ! She is a pretty little filly, and if I’d met 
her years ago she might have made a man of me, but 
it is too late now ; I am sold to Satan, body and soul, 
and must do his bidding. How much is she worth, do 
you think ?” 

“ The Forrest estate is variously estimated from two 
hundred to five hundred thousand. I should say, per¬ 
haps, two hundred and fifty,” Josephine replied, and the 
doctor continued : 

“ And she will not touch the principal on account of 
some queer notions she has of giving it back to Forrest 
when she is twenty-one ?” 

“ No, she will not touch the principal, nor more of 
the interest than is absolutely necessary,” Josephine said, 
and for a few moments the doctor was silent and seemed 
to be intently thinking. 

When he spoke again he said : 

“You say she is pious, or pretends to be, and if she 
does it is genuine ; there is no deceit in that face. I’d 
trust it with my soul, if necessary. I tell you I like the 
girl. She is just the one to keep men from losing faith 
in everything good. I’ll wager now that Forrest is in 
love with her, and that’s one reason he does not take any 
more stock in you. Is he?” and the doctor looked 
steadily at Josephine, who turned very pale as lie thus 
probed her so closely. 


HOW THE GAME WAS PLATED. 


306 


So far as affection was concerned she had none for 
"her husband, but it hurt her pride cruelly to know that 
with all her beauty and grace she could not influence 
him one whit, or turn him from the girl she was sure he 
loved as he had never loved her. She generally told the 
truth to Dr. Matthewson, who had some subtle power to 
find it out if she did not, and now, though sorely against 
her will, she answered : 

“Yes, he worships the ground she treads upon.” 

“ Then, why in thunder doesn’t he get a divorce from 
you and marry her ? That surely would be an easy 
thing to do under the circumstances,” was the doctor’s 
next remark. 

“ That is more than I can guess, unless he is too proud 
to endure the notoriety of such a procedure. Certainly 
it is no consideration for mo which deters him,” Jose¬ 
phine said ; adding suddenly, as she glanced up the street: 
“ There she comes now. You’d better declare yourself 
at once.” 

But the doctor knew his own plans best with regard 
to Rosamond, who was coming toward the croquet- 
ground with two of her pupils, Clara and Eva Andrews. 
She did not see the doctor and Josephine until she was 
close upon them, and then simply bowing to them, she 
passed on and was soon out of sight. 

That night, as she was about preparing for bed, a 
thick heavy envelope was brought to her room, directed 
in a hand she did not recognize. Breaking the seal and 
glancing at the signature, she read with a thrill of won¬ 
der and perplexity the name, “John Matthewson, nee 
Hastings,” while just above it were the words, “Your 
affectionate brother.” 

“ My brother,” she repeated. “ What does it mean ?” 
and for a moment she felt as if she were going to faint 
with the rush of emotions which swept suddenly over 

her. 

Of her brother, personally, she remembered nothing, 
She only knew that she had one; that in some way he 
annoyed and worried her mother; that he was not highly 
esteemed by the Forrests, and that he was probably 
dead. Latterly, however, since she had gone out into 
the world alone to care for herself, she had often thought 


306 


HOW THE GAME WAS FLAYED 


of him, and how delightful it would be to have a brother 
who was good, and kind, and true, and who would care 
for her as brothers sometimes care for their sisters. Oc¬ 
casionally, too, she had amused herself with fancying 
how he would look if he were alive, and how he would 
treat her. But she had never dreamed of any one as 
handsome, and polished, and elegant as Dr. Matthewson, 
who signed himself her brother, and had filled three or 
four sheets of paper with what he had to say. Very 
eagerly she singled out the first sheet and began : 

“Dear Sister Rossie :—You will pardon me for not 
addressing you as Miss Hastings, or even Rosamond, 
when I tell you I am your brother, and have always 
thought of you as Rossie, the little girl who, I suppose, 
does not remember me, and who, perhaps, has not been 
taught to think of me very pleasantly. But, Rossie, I am 
a changed man, or I would not present myself to you, a 
purg, innocent girl, and ask for sympathy and love. I 
do not believe you care to hear all the events of my life 
in detail, and so I shall not narrate them, but of a few 
things I must speak, in order that we may rightly un¬ 
derstand each other. And first, your mother. I was a 
spoiled, wayward boy of sixteen when she came to us, 
and I was prejudiced against her by an aunt of mine, 
who, I think now, wanted my father herself. A step¬ 
mother was to me the worst of all evils, and I thought it 
was manly to tease and worry her, while I blush to say 
my father also treated her so shamefully that at last she 
fled from him, as you know, and took refuge at the For¬ 
rest House, where she finally died. 

“ I was there once to see her, and as you may not 
have heard the particulars of that visit, and I wish to 
keep back nothing you ought to know, I will tell you 
about it.” 

Then followed a pretty truthful account of the en¬ 
counter with Everard, the cowhiding, and the vow of 
revenge, after which the doctor spoke of his subsequent 
career, his change of name, his sudden conversion at a 
camp-meeting, his life as a clergyman*m Clarence, hig 
back-sliding, and lapse into his former evil ways, his few 


HOW THE GAME WAS PLATED. 301 


mouths’ study us a physician, his first trip to Europe, 
and at last his sojourn for the summer in Ilolburton, 
where he met Everard Forrest again, and was asked by 
Josephine to take the part of priest in the play called 
u Mock Marriage.” 

“Then it was,” he wrote, “ that the devil entered into 
me and whispered, ‘ Now is your hour for revenge on the 
scttpling who dared lay his hand on you.’ From all I 
could learn of the Forrests, or rather, of the judge, I 
guessed that he would rebel hotly against a penniless 
bride m Miss Fleming’s social position, and that nothing 
could oe more disastrous for Everard than such a mar¬ 
riage ; and yet I aided and abetted it, and took care that 
it shoul f be altogether binding, and so gained my mean 
revenge, for which I have been sorry a thousand times,— 
yes, more than that ; and if I could undo the work of 
that night I would do it gladly. But I cannot, and 
others suffer the consequences. You see I am not igno¬ 
rant of the manner in which Mr. and Mrs. Forrest live, 
and I am sorry for them both, and am laying bare my 
heart to you that you may know exactly the kind of 
brother you have found; and that, however bad he may 
have been, he is a different man now, or he would never 
intrude himself upon you. 

“ On my first interview with Everard in Holburton, 
I managed to get him to speak of you, and I half re¬ 
solved to seek you and claim you as my own. But a 
sense of un worthiness kept me back. I was not a fitting 
guardian for a girl like you, and so I still kept silence, 
and after a time went to Europe again, where I remained 
until quite recently, and where, by a long and dangerous 
illness, I was brought to a realization of ray sins, and 
resolved to lead a new life. Naturally, one of the first 
and strongest desires of my new life was to find you. 
Mrs. Forrest, who wrote to me occasionally, had told 
me that you had left the Forrest House, of w'hich you 
were the law T ful heir; and as my health required a warm 
climate, I came first to Florida, after my return to 
America, i».ten<|ing, in the spring, to spare no pains to 
find you. The rest you know. 

“And now, Rossie, will you take me for a brother? 


808 


HOW THE GAME WAS PLATED. 


If so, please leave a line at the office, telling me where I 
can see you and when, and in all the world there will be 
no one so happy as your affectionate brother, 

John Matthewson, ne Hastings.” 

Rossie was not as strong as w T hen she was a child, 
and any over-fatigue or unusual excitement was sure to 
be followed by a nervous headache, which sometimes 
lasted two or three days ; and as she read this letter sho 
felt a cold, clammy swept breaking out in the palms of 
her hands, while a cutting pain in her head warned her 
that her old enemy neuralgia, was threatening an attack. 
That she believed every word of the letter need hardly 
be said, for hers was a nature to believe everything, and 
it made her very happy to know that the brother who 
heretofore had been to her only a myth, was found at 
last, and such a brother, too. Then the question arose 
as to how Evevara would receive this man who had pur¬ 
posely dene him so great a wrong. Would he for¬ 
give him for her sake, and believe in bis repentance? 
She should write to him the next day and tell him all 
about it, and her heart throbbed with a new and keen 
delight at the thought of some one to care for her, somo 
one to lean upon and advise her and help her with that 
dreadful Forrest estate. And then her busy little brain 
plunged into the future, and began to wonder where they 
should live and how, for that she should live with her 
brother she did not for a moment doubt. Her place was 
with him, and she should try so hard to make him happy, 
and keep him in the new way wherein he was beginning 
to walk. In this state of mind it was impossible to 
sleep, and when at last morning came it found her wake¬ 
ful and unrefreshed, with dark rings about her eyes, and 
so severe a pain in her temples and the back of her neck 
that to go down to breakfast was impossible. She had 
barely strength to dress herself and lie down upon the 
couch, where Mrs. Andrews found her, after having 
waited some time for her appearance. 

Very rapidly and briefly Rosamond told her the good 
news, which Mrs. Andrews accepted readily. She had 
heard before that Miss Hastings had a brother, if ha 
were not dead, and having met the doctor the previous 


PLATED. 


ROW TEL GAME 


WA 


300 


day and boon much prepossessed with him, as strangers 
always were, she rejoiced with her young friend, but 
advised her to wait until her head was better before she 
risked the excitement of an interview. But this Rossie 
could not do. She should never be better till she had 
eeeu bar brother, she said, and a message was accord 
iaglv sent him to the effect that Rossie would see him in 
her room whenever he chose to come. 

The doctor did not wait a moment, and was soon at 
Rossie’s side, bending over her, and telling her not to 
allow herself to be agitated in the least, but to lie 
quietly upon her pillow and let him do most of the talk¬ 
ing. 

In all the world there was hardly a more accomplished 
and fascinating hypocrite than Dr. Mattkewson, and so 
well did he use his powers and art that if Rossie had had any 
distrust of him or his sincerity it would have been entirely 
swept away during the half hour he spent with her, now 
talking of himself as he used to be with great regret, and 
of himself as he was now with great humility ; now tell¬ 
ing how glad he was to lind his little sister, and then 
complimenting her in a way which could not fail to be 
gratifying to any woman. Then he spoke of her health, 
and was sorry to find her so frail and delicate, and 
asked her many questions about herself, while he held 
her hand and felt her pulse professionally. “ Had she 
ever thought her heart at all diseased, or that her lungs 
were affected ?” he asked ; adding, quickly, as he saw the 
sudden start she gave : 

“Oh, don’t be frightened, and conclude you have 
either consumption or heart disease. I only asked 
because some members of our family far back died with 
a heart difficulty, and if I remember right your mother 
had consumption. But we must not let you have either 
of them. You do not seem to have a great amount of 
vitality. Are you never stronger than now, and do these 
headaches occur very often ?” 

He had her hand in one of his, and with the other 
was stroking her head and hair, while she answered that 
nothing ailed her except the headache to which she had 
been subject all her life, and a predisposition to sore 
ihroat'whenever she took cold. 


310 


HOW THE GAME WAS PLATED . 


“ Ah, yes, I see,” mid the doctor looked very wise, 
“Bronchial trouble, no doubt, aggravated by our dread 
ful American climate. Excuse me, mignonne , if I con* 
fess to being more than half a European. I have lived 
abroad so much that I greatly prefer being there, and 
know the climate is better for me. Some day not far 
distant we must go there together, you and I, and I’ll 
take such care of you that people will hardly know you 
when you come back. I’ll have some color in these white 
cheeks, though I don’t believe I could improve the eyes.” 

It was the great desire of Rossie’s life to go to 
Europe some day, and she assented to all her brother 
said, and wrote to Everard immediately after her inter¬ 
view with the doctor, and told him of her brother, and 
what a good, noble man he had become. 

Then, as carefully and gently as possible, she spoke 
of the wrong he had done to Everard, and for which he 
was so very sorry. 

“I do not suppose you can ever like him as I do,” 
she wrote, “ but I hope you will try to be friends with 
him for my sake.” 

Accompanying this letter was one from the doctor him¬ 
self, couched in the most conciliatory terms, full of regret 
for the past and strong in good intentions for the future. 

“ I shall be so glad to be friends with you for 
Rossie’s sake, if for no other,” he wrote in conclusion. 
“ She holds you in higher esteem than any living being ; 
so let her plead for me ; and when we meet, as we some¬ 
times must, or Rossie be very unhappy, let it be at least 
with the semblance of friendship.” 

Everard’s first impulse on receiving these letters was 
to go to Florida at once and wrest Rossie from the 
fangs of the wolf, as he stigmatized the doctor, in whom 
he had no faith. 

“ I cannot forgive him,” he said. “I will not, though 
he were ten times her brother ; and I distrust him, too, 
notwithstanding his protestations of reform.” 

But he could not write this to Rossie. He said to 
her m his letter that if her brother was all she repre¬ 
sented him to be, he was glad for her sake that she had 
found him, and that he hoped always to be friendly with 
her friends and those that were kind to her. 


HOW THE GAME WAS PLAYED . 


311 


“ But if be were the archangel himself,” he added, 
1< I should find it hard to forgive him for having removed 
from my grasp what I miss more and more every day of 
my life, and long for with an intensity which masters 
my reason and drives me almost to despair. But what 
ever I may feel toward him, Rossie, I shall treat him well 
for your sake, and if you can find any comfort in his 
society, take it, and be as happy as you can.” 

To Dr. Matthewson he wrote in a different strain. 
He did not believe in the man, and though he made an 
effort to be civil he showed his distrust and aversion in 
every line. If the doctor had repented, he was glad of 
it, but wished the repentance had come in time to have 
saved him from a life-long trouble. A boy's cowhiding 
was a small matter for a man to avenge so terribly, he 
said, and then added : 

“It is no news to me that you are John Hastings, 
Rossie’s half-brother. I knew that long ago, but kept it 
to myself, as I did not wish Rossie to know how much 
of mv unhappiness I owed to her half-brother. Wholly 
truthful and innocent, she thinks others are the same, 
and if you tell her you are a saint she will believe it im¬ 
plicitly until some act of your own proves the contrary. 
She is very happy in your society, and I shall do nothing 
to make her less so, but don’t ask me to indorse you cor¬ 
dially, as if nothing had ever happened. The thing is 
impossible. If we meet I shall treat you well for Ros¬ 
sie’s sake, and shall not seek to injure you so long as you 
are kind and true to her, but if you harm a hair of Ros¬ 
sie’s head, or bring her to any sorrow, as sure as there is 
a heaven above us, I’ll pursue you to the ends of the 
earth to be even with you.” 

There was an amused smile on Dr. Matthewson’s face 
as he read this letter, which showed him so plainly what 
Everard’s opinion of him was. A meaning smile, too, it 
was, and one which his enemy would hardly have cared 
to see. 

“ So ho ! the young man threatens me,” he said to 
himself. “I am glad he has shown his hand, though it 
was foolish in him to do so, and proves that he is not 
well up in fencing. I wonder what he wrote to Rossie 5 
and if she will show me the letter.” 


HOW THE GAME WAS 


PLATED 


Rossie could not show it to him, but when next they 
met in her room, she said to him : 

“I have heard from Everard, and he says that he ie 
glad I am so happy with you, and he will be friendly 
with you always, and I do so hope you will like each 
other. Have you, too, heard from him ?” 

The doctor laughed a low, musical laugh, and draw¬ 
ing his sister to him, said: 

“You cannot dissemble worth a cent. Don’t you 
suppose X know that Everard’s letter to you was not all 
you hoped it to be. He finds it hard to forgive me for 
having deprived him of something which his maturer 
manhood tells him is sweeter, more precious, and fai 
more to be desired than the object of his boyish passion. 
And I cannot blame him. I am as sorry as he, in a dif¬ 
ferent way, of course, and you-” 

He did not finish the sentence, for Rossie broke away 
from him, and burying her face in the cushions of the 
couch on which they were sitting, burst into an uncon¬ 
trollable fit of weeping. 

“ Don’t,” she said, as he made an effort to soothe her. 
“ Don’t speak to me, please. I must have it out now. I 
have kept it back so long. Oh, I wish I had died when 
I was a little girl, and before I grew to be a woman, 
with a woman’s love, which I must fight all my life, and 
never know a moment of absolute rest and quiet. Oh, 
why did you do it ? Why did you separate me from my 
love ? for he is mine, and I am his. X was everything to 
him; he was everything to me. Oh, Everard, just this 
once I will say out what I feel. I love you ,— I love you/ 
and I cannot help it. I know it is wicked, and try to 
put it away. I bury it out of my sight ; I trample on 
it; I stamp upon it ; I think I have the mastery over it, 
and ok the slightest provocation it springs into life more 
vigorous than ever, and I cannot conquer it.” 

She had said all she had to say, but she kept on 
gobbing piteously, like one in mortal pain ; and, hard¬ 
hearted, and utterly unprincipled, and selfish as he was, 
Dr. Matthewson could not be wholly indifferent to a 
grief such as he had never witnessed but once, and that 
was years ago ; but she who wept before him then was a 
fair-haired German girl asking reparation for the ruin he 



HOW THE GAME WAS l SATED. 


313 


had wrought. He had laughed at her, and telling her 
Bhe would make a splendid queen of tragedy, had bidden 
her go upon the stage and achieve her fortune, then 
come to him, and perhaps he would make terms with 
her. But Rossie was a different creature. She knew 
nothing of such girls as Yula Yan Eisner. She was Ros¬ 
sie, heiress of the Forrest property,—and he walked up 
and down the room several times, and blew his nose vig¬ 
orously, and made a feint of wiping his eyes with his 
perfumed handkerchief, and then came and stood by her, 
and putting his hand on her bowed head, said to her : 

“Don’t, Rossie, give way like this, or you will drive 
me mad, knowing, as I do, that I have in one sense 
caused your sorrow. If I could undo it, I would, but I 
cannot. There is, however, a way out of it. Have you 
ever thought how easily he might get a divorce, which 
would make him free?” 

“ He would not be free and, lifting up her head, 
Rossie flashed her bright black eyes upon him indig¬ 
nantly. “ The Bible would not recognize him as free, 
neither would I, and you must not speak of such a thing 
to me.” 

“ Then I will not,” he answered, still more sooth¬ 
ingly ; “ but Rossie, it is folly to give way like this, 
though for this once I am glad you did. For now I un¬ 
derstand better the cause of these pale cheeks and irreg¬ 
ular pulse, and am sure you need entire change of air 
and scene, such as you can only find in Europe, where we 
are going in the spring. Think of a summer in Switzer¬ 
land among the glorious Alps. I know every rock, and 
chasm, and winding path there, and shall be so happy in 
seeing you enjoy them.” 

He was speaking very kindly to her now, and she 
gradually grew calm, and listened while he talked of 
Europe and what they should see there, for he quite 
decided that they would go in the spring, and as nothing 
in the way of travel could suit Rossie better, she told 
Mrs. Andrews the next day of the plan and wrote of it 
to Everard, ignoring altogether his right as her guardian 
to be consulted. But Everard did not resent it, though 
foi a tune he felt half tempted to say that she should 
not go, for a strong presentiment of evil swept over him 

14 


314 


HOW THE GAME WAS PLAYED. 


with such force as to keep him awake the entire night. 
But with the morning his nervous fears subsided, and he 
could see no reasonable objection to Rossie’s going for 
the summer to Europe with her brother, whose perfect 
knowledge of the manners, and customs, and language 
of the different countries must make him a very pleas' 
ant traveling companion. 

Rossie had written that she should go directly from 
Florida to New York, and so Everard wrote her his 
farewell letter, and sent her a draft for five hundred 
dollars, which he said she might need, as she would not 
care to be altogether dependent upon her brother. 
Rossie’s first impulse was to return the draft, but Dr. 
Matthewson advised her to keep it and not wound Ever¬ 
ard by returning it to him. 

So Rossie kept it, or rather, gave it to her brother 
and sent a letter of thanks to Everard and another t« 
Bee, telling her of her intended journey, and bidding 
her good-by. 

With that subtle and mysterious foresight with which 
women seem to be gifted, and for which there is no ex¬ 
planation, Beatrice anticipated danger at once, though 
in what form she could not define. She only knew that 
she wished Rossie was not going away alone with Dr. 
Matthewson, but she kept her fears from Everard, and 
wrote to Rossie that she should be in New York to see 
her off. And when Rossie stood at last on the deck of 
the Oceanic, Bee was there and Everard, too, taking his 
last look at the face which would haunt him in the years 
to come, as the faces of the dead haunt us when we feel 
that by some act of ours interposed in time we might 
have slaved the life dearer than our own. Beatrice had 
said to him: 

“ I am going to New York to see Rossie. Will you 
go with me ?” and without a moment’s reflection he went, 
and spent one blissful day with her, a day never to be 
forgotten, when he drove with her in the Park, and 
watched the constantly changing expression of her sweet 
face, which had grown so pale and thin that he was more 
than half reconciled to let her go, hoping much from 
the sea air and the new life she would lead. To the doc¬ 
tor he was polite and courteous, and an ordinary observer 


HOW THE GAME WAS PLATED 


115 


might have thought them the best of friends, so that 
Rossie was satisfied, and would have been quite happy if 
she could have forgotten the distance which would so 
soon intervene between them. 

On the whole Beatrice was favorably impressed with 
Dr. Matthewson, who was so kind to Rossie and so 
thoughtful for her that she dismissed her fears, and half 
wished she, too, were going with them. She said as 
much to Rossie when they stood upon the deck waiting 
for the order to be given for all visitors to leave. 

“ Oh, I’d give the world if you were,” Rossie cried. 
“ I should not feel as I do,—afraid, somehow, as if I was 
never to return,—never to see you again, or Everard.” 

She was holding his hand in both hers as she spoke, 
and in that moment of farewell she forgot everything 
except the presentiment that she was going from him 
forever ; that their parting was final ; and her tears fell 
like rain as she bent over and kissed his hand, and said : 

“ Good-by, Everard, good-by, and if it should be for¬ 
ever, you’ll never forget me, will you ?” These were her 
parting words, which, ; n the after time, he said over 
and over again, with a bitterer, heavier pain than that 
he felt when with Bee he stood upon the Jersey shore, 
and watched the Oceanic sailing down the bay. 

And so Rossie passed from their sight, and the next 
they heard from her she had reached Liverpool, but was 
greatly fatigued with the voyage, during which she had 
been sick most of the time. It was only a few lines she 
wrote to Everard, to tell him she was safe. 

“ When I am stronger,” she said, “ I will send you 
and Beatrice a long letter, and tell you everything. Now 
I can only sit by my window and look out upon the busy 
streets of Liverpool and St. George’s Hall right opposite, 
and occasionally there comes over me a feeling of some¬ 
thing like homesickness when I remember how far I am 
from America and the friends who never seemed half so 
dear to me as now, when I am so widely separated from 
them.” 

The next he heard from Rossie she was in London, 
delightfully located in lodgings near Regent’s Park, 
and playing keep house, while her brother was the best 
and kindest man in the world, and she was very happy. 


316 HOW THE GAME WAS PLAYED. 

Then they went to Switzerland, and Rossie’s letters 
were full of the enthusiastic delight she felt with every* 
thing around her. Of her health she seldom spoke, and 
when she did, it was not altogether satisfactory. Some¬ 
times she was so tired that she had kept her room for 
two or three days, and again a headache, or sore throat, 
or cold, had confined her to the house for nearly a week; 
but she w r as very happy among the Alps, and wished 
that Beatrice and Everard were there with her to enjoy 
what she was enjoying. As the summer advanced, how¬ 
ever, her letters were not so frequent, and the doctor 
sometimes wrote for her, saying she was not feeling well, 
and had made him her amanuensis. They were not to be 
alarmed, he said ; it was only a slight heart difficulty, 
induced by the mountain air, which often affected tour¬ 
ists in that way. He should take her to Southern France 
early in the autumn, and then to Italy as the season ad 
vanced, and should not return to America till spring. 

When Everard read this letter there came over him 
again a great horror of some impending evil threatening 
Rossie, and do what he might he could not shake it off. 
He thought of it by day and dreamed of it by night, 
and could he have found any good excuse for doing so, 
he would have started for Europe, and kept near the 
girl, who, it seemed to him, was in some imminent peril, 
though of what nature he could not guess. 

Some time in November a letter came from Dr. Mat- 
thewson, dated at Nice, where he said they had been for 
two or three weeks, and where, as he expressed it, “ I 
hope our dear invalid is improving. Switzerland was 
not the place for her, and she seemed to grow weaker 
every day she staid there, so I hastened back to Paris, 
and then came here, where she seems very happy, but is 
weak as an infant. She complains of nothing but weari¬ 
ness, and cannot get rested. Of course I have the best 
medical advice for her, and everything is done which 
can be to arrest the disease and give her some strength. 
The physicians have forbidden her reading or writing, 
even short letters, and I must do it for her for the pres 
ent. I hope that neither you nor Miss Belknap will be 
needlessly distressed, for I assure you there is no imme¬ 
diate danger, and with proper care, such as she has now. 


HOW THE GAME WAS PLATED. 


817 


she will, I think, be quite able to return to America in 
the spring. She is calling to me now from her chair by 
the window, and says . ‘ Tell them not to be troubled, 

about me ; that I walked too much in Switzerland and 
am not rested yet, but am so hapj y here in beautiful 
Nice, looking out upon the blue Mediterranean.’” 

After this letter Rossie never wrote again, and though 
Everard and Beatrice wrote frequently to her, asking her 
to send them a line, if nothing more, Dr. Matthewson al¬ 
ways replied, “She is forbidden to write even so much 
as her name and so the fall and winter crept on, and 
Rossie tvas first in Venice, then in Florence, and then in 
Rome. And then Dr. Matthewson wrote one day to 
Everard, saying that Rossie did not know of this letter 
neither did he wish her to know, as it would only trouble 
her and retard her recovery, but to be brief, he found 
himself straitened for money just now, physicians 
charged so abominably in Europe, and on account oi 
Rossie’s illness their expenses were, of course, much 
heavier than they would otherwise have been, and if 
Everard would make an advance for Rossie of a few 
thousand dollars, he should be very glad. He w’as in¬ 
tending to leave Rome early in the spring, and go to 
Germany to a famous cure, where the prices were very 
high. 

Double the amount of money asked for was placed at 
the doctor’s disposal, and when that night Everard went 
to Elm Park to call upon Beatrice, he said, in reply to 
her inquiries for news from Rossie : 

u We shall never see her again.” 





ALAS, PO OP ROSSIB t 


CHAPTER XLII. 

ALAS, POOR ROSSIE ! 

had been a long, dreary year to Everard, 
and when the anniversary came round of the 
day when Rossie sailed, it seemed to him 
that he had lived in that year more than a 
hundred lives. And yet, in a business point 
of view he had been very prosperous, and money was 
beginning to be more plenty with him than formerly, 
though he could not lay by much, for Josephine made 
heavy demands upon him. When she left Florida she 
did not return to Rothsay, where she knew she was 
looked upon with distrust by the better class. It was a 
dull, poJcy hole , she said, and she should enjoy herself 
better traveling, so she traveled from place to place 
during the summer and autumn, and in the winter went 
again to Florida,—but early in the spring she came back 
to the Forrest House, where she lived very quietly, and 
seemed to shun rather than court society. She, too, 
knew of Rossie’s failing health, for she heard often from 
the doctor, and she expressed so much anxiety for her 
to Beatrice and Everard, hinting that they did not know 
the worst, that their fears were increased, and suspense 
was growing intolerable, when, at last, one morning in 
May, the mail brought to Everard the American Register 
from Paris, directed in a hand he had never seen before. 

Evidently it was sent from the office, and probably 
had in it the whereabouts of some of his friends who 
were traveling in Europe, and who occasionally for¬ 
warded him a paper when they left one place for another. 
Mr. Evarts was still abroad, and Everard ran his eye 
over the list of names registered in different places to 
see if his was there, for that the paper had anything to 
do with Rossie he never dreamed. Indeed, she was not 
in his mind, except as she was always there, in a general 
way, and so the shock was all the greater and more ter¬ 
rible when he came suddenly upon a little obituary 





ALA S, PO OR R088IE ! 


319 


notice, and read, with wildly-throbbing heart, and eyes 
which felt as if they w r ere starting from their sockets, 
so great was the pressure of blood upon his brain : 

“Died, on the evening of April 20th, in Haelder 
Htrauchsen, Austria, of consumption and heart disease, 
M iss Rosamond Hastings, of Rothsay, Ohio, IT. S. A., 
aged nineteen years and ten months. Seldom has death 
snatched any one more loveiy in person and character 
than this fair young girl, who, in a strange land, fair 
from home, passed peacefully and willingly to the home 
above, and whose last words to her weeping brother 
were : ‘ Don’t cry for me, and tell them at home not to 
be sorry either. Heaven is as near me here in Austria 
as it would be in America, and I am so glad to go.’ ” 

Everard could read no more, and throwing the paper 
from him he buried his face in his hands, and for a few 
moments gave way to such grief as men seldom feel, and 
never experience but once in a life-time. He did not 
weep ; his pain was too great for tears ; neither did any 
word escape his livid lips, but his frame shook as with 
an ague chill, and occasionally a long-drawn, moaning 
sob told how much he suffered, while great drops of 
sweat gathered thickly upon his face, and in the palms 
of his hands. No other blow could have smitten him so 
heavily as he was smitten now. It is true he had felt, a 
great dread lest Rossie should die, but underlying 
that was always the hope that she would come back 
again. But all that was ended now, the little ray of 
sunlight on his horizon had set in gloom, and the night 
lay dark and heavy around him, with no rift in the 
black clouds, no light in the future. Rossie was dead, 
in all her freshness and youthful beauty ; Rossie, who 
had been to him a constant source of pleasure and joy, 
since he first took her in his arms, a tiny little girl, and 
kissed her pretty T mouth in spite of her remonstrance, 
“Big boys like oo mustn’t tiss nittle dirls like me.” 

He had kissed her many times since as his sister, 
and twice with all the intensity of a lover’s burning pas¬ 
sion, and once she had kissed him back, and he knew just 
where her lips had touched him, and fancied he felt their 
pressure again, and the perfume of her breath upon his 
cheek. But, alas, she was dead, and the Austi ian skies 


820 


ALAS , POOR ROSSIE! 


were bending above her grave in that far-off town with 
the strange-sounding German name, which le had not 
stopped to pronounce. 

“ What was the name ?” he asked himself, speaking 
for the first time since he read the fatal news, and reach¬ 
ing mechanically for the paper lying open at his feet. 

But his eyes were blood-shot and dim, and it took 
him some time to spell out, letter by letter, the name 
Haelder-Strauchsen, and to wonder where and what man¬ 
ner of place it was where Rossie died, and if she were 
lying under the flowers and soft green turf she loved so 
much in life, and if he should ever see her grave. 

“Yes, please Heaven!” he said, “I’ll find it some 
day, and whisper to my darling sleeping there of the 
love it will be no sin to speak of then. I’ll tell her how 
with her life my sun of hope went down, never to rise 
again.” 

Then, glancing once more at the paper, he read a 
second time “ Died, April 20th,” and tried to recall 
what he was doing on that day, the darkest and saddest 
which had ever dawned for him. Making allowance for 
the difference in time between Austria and Ohio, it was 
little past midday with him when it was evening over 
there where Rosamond was dying, and with a shudder 
he remembered how he was occupied then. Josephine 
had written him a note, asking him to come to the For¬ 
rest House as soon after lunch as possible, as she wished 
particularly to see him. As he walked up the avenue to 
the house, he had looked around sadly and regretfully at 
the different objects which had once been so familiar to 
him, and all of which had been so intimately associated 
with Rossie. It was a lovely April day, and beds of 
hyacinths and crocusses were in full bloom, and the daf¬ 
fodils and double narcissuses were showing their heads 
on the borders near the door. These had been Rossie’s 
special care, and he had seen her so often working among 
them, trowel in hand, with her high-necked, long-sleeved 
apron on, that he found himself half-looking for her 
now. 

But Rossie was not there ; Rossie was dying far 
away over the sea; and only Josephine met him in the 
hall, civilly and haughtily, as had been her manner of 


ALAS ; POOR ROSSIE f 


321 


late, and taking him into the reception-room where Ros- 
sie used to come to him and vex him so with her long 
dress and new airs of womanhood, told him she had an 
invitation to visit a friend who lived in Indianapolis, and 
who had invited her to spend the entire summer with 
her, and she wished to know if he could furnish her with 
money for the necessary outfit, and should she shut up 
the house again and let Agnes go to Holburton, or 
should she keep it open and leave Agnes in charge. 

He told her she could have the money, and said that 
if Agnes wished to go to Holburton they might as well 
shut up the house for the summer; and then he left her 
and walked rapidly down the avenue, thinking of the 
girl whose presence seemed to fill the place so completely 
that once, when a bush near the carriage road rustled 
suddenly as a rabbit darted away, he stopped, half 
expecting to see a figure in white sun-bonnet and high- 
necked apron spring out at him just as Rossie used some¬ 
times to do when she was a little child and lie a well- 
grown boy. And she was dying then, when he was 
thinking so much of her, and she seemed to be so near 
him. “Dying then and dead now,” he said, to himself, 
lust as a step was heard outside, and Lawyyer Russell 
came in, stopping short in alarm at the white, haggard 
face which Everard lifted to him. 

“ What is it, my boy ? Are you sick ? What has 
happened ? Tell me,” he asked ; and motioning to the 
paper on the floor, Everard answered sadly, “ Rossie is 
dead.” 

“Rossie dead ! No, no, Ned, it can’t be true,” Mr. 
Russell said, and picking up the paper he read the 
paragraph indicated by Everard, while a tear moistened 
his eyelids and rolled down his cheeks. 

The old man had been very fond of Rossie, and for a 
few moments he walked up and down the little back 
office with his hands behind him and his head bent down, 
then stopping suddenly he gave vent to the exclamation 
“By George !” uttered in such a tone that Everard 
looked up quickly and inquiringly, and said: 

• “ What is it ? What’s the matter ?” 

“Ned, my boy, look here. This may not be the time 
nor place to speak of such a thing, but hanged if I can 


322 


ALAS, POOR ROSSIE! 


help it,” the lawyer v^plied, coming close to Everard 
and continuing, “ I take it that you considered Rosa¬ 
mond Hastings to have been the lawful devisee to your 
father’s estate.” 

“ I know she was,” Everard said; and the lawyer went 
on in a choking voice : 

“Poor little girl! She rebelled against it hotly, 
and would have deeded it to you if she had lived to 
come of age,—there’s nothing surer than that. But you 
say she’s dead, and she not twenty yet till June, and 
don’t you see, in spite of fate, the estate goes to her 
brother, who is her heir-at-law, and that’s what I call 
hard on you. I know nothing of the man except what 
you have told me, but if the half of that is true, he is a 
scamp, and will run through the property in a quarter of 
the time it took to make it. Maybe, though, he has 
some kind of honor about him, and if Rossie knew she 
was going to die, you may be sure she put in a plea for 
you, and perhaps he will divide; that’s the best you can 
hope for. So we won’t despair till we hear from the 
brother. There’s another mail from the north to-night. 
A letter may come by that. It ought to have been here 
with the paper. It’s a bad business all round,—very bad. 
Rossie dead; poor Rossie, the nicest girl and most sen¬ 
sible that ever was born, and the propertv gone to 
thunder!” 

The old man was a good deal moved, and began again 
to walk the floor, while Everard laid his head upon the 
table in a half stupefied condition. Rot that he then 
cared especially what became of his father’s money, 
though the thought that it would goto the man he hated 
most cordially was a fresh shock to his nerves, but it 
was nothing to losing Rossie. That was a grief which 
it seemed to him he could not bear. Certainly he could 
not bear it alone. He must tell it to some one who 
would not, like Lawyer Russell, talk to him of money ; 
and when it began to grow dark, so that no one could 
see how white and w T orn he was, he arose and walked 
slowly up to Elm Park, sure of finding a ready and 
hearty sympathy there. 

“Oh, Everard, what is it?” Beatrice asked, when 
she first met him and saw his white, haggard face. 


THE LETTERS. 


823 


He answered her as he had answered Mr. Russell, 
“ Rossie is dead,” and then seated himself again in the 
chair from which he had arisen when she came in. Bea • 
trice’s tears were falling like rain, but Everard’s eyes 
were as dry as if he had never thought to weep, and 
there was such a fearful expression of anguish on his 
face that Beatrice went up to him, and laying her hand 
on his head, said, pityingly : 

“Oh, Everard, don’t look like that. You frighten 
me. Cry, can’t you, just as I do ? Tears would do you 
good.” 

“ Cry ?” he repeated. “ How can I cry with this 
band like red-hot iron around my heart, forcing it up to 
my throat. I shall never cry again, or laugh, never. 
Bee, I know you think me foolish and wicked, too, per¬ 
haps ; half the world would think it, and say I had no 
right to love Rossie as I do, and perhaps I have not; but 
the dearest, sweetest memory of my life is the memory 
of what she was to me. I know she could never be 
mine. I gave that up long ago, and still the world was 
pleasanter to me because she was in it. Oh, Rossie, my 
darling, how can I live on and know that you are dead ?” 

Then Beatrice did not attempt to comfort him, for 
she knew she could not, but she sat by him in silence un¬ 
til he arose and went away, saying to her at parting, and 
ae if he had not told her before, “ Rossie is dead.” 


CHAPTER XLIIL 

THE LETTERS. 

pjpgggplHE next day’s mail brought four foreign let- 
IllraSl ters to Rothsay,—one for Everard, one for 
Beatrice, one for Josephine, and one for 
Lawyer Russell. They were all mailed in 

**.- Vienna, within two days of each other, and 

the one addressed to Everard was as follows : 








824 


TEE LETTERS. 


“ Vienna, April —, -*. 

“Mr. Evekard Forrest :—Dear Sir —I hardly know 
why I write to you first, unless it is because I know that 
what I have to say will hurt you most; you, who I think 
loved my darling Rossie. You have perhaps received 
the American Register which I ordered to be sent you 
from the office in Faris when I forwarded the notice, and 
so you know why I write to you now. I have written to 
you from time to time of Rossie’s failing health, but 
never told you as bad as it was, for I did not wish to 
alarm you unnecessarily, and kept hoping that change of 
scene might bring the improvement I so greatly desired. 
But nothing helped her, though she never complained of 
anything but fatigue. ‘ So tired,’ was all she ever said 
of herself, and she seemed like some sweet flower fading 
gradually. 

“At Haelder-Strauchsen, a little town among the 
Austrian hills, I found she was not able to go on as I 
wished to do, to Vienna, and so we staid there, where she 
had the best of care. Neither of us thought the end so 
near until the last day, when she failed rapidly, and 
talked of you and Miss Belknap, and told me to tell you 
how much she loved you both, and that you were not to 
be sorry she was dead, for she was only going home, and 
Heaven was as near Austria as it was to America. She 
was so beautiful in her coffin, with a smile of peace upon 
her face, as if she were resting at last. The people liter¬ 
ally covered her with flowers, and strangers’ tears fell 
fast over her coffin as we laid her in the grave. 

“ I shall come to America soon, and will tell you all 
you wish to know with regard to her sickness and death, 
and the many things she said of you, and your kindness to 
her. I have a lock of her hair for you and Miss Bel¬ 
knap, which I will bring with me. 

“ And now good-by, and may Heaven pity us both 
and make us better men for having had our Rossie even 
for so short a time. 

“Truly, John Matthewson.” 

His letter to Beatrice was in substance much the same 
as the one to Everard. There were a few more details 


THE LETTERS . 


325 


of Rossie’s illness, and a few more wolds which she said 
at the last of her friends in America. 

Josephine’s letter no one saw, and if they had few in 
Rotbsay could have made it out, for it was written in 
German, which Josephine could readily understand. One 
or two sentences, however, deserve a place in our story, 
and must accordingly be given. After indulging in a 
good deal of sentimentalism with regard to Rossie’s 
death, he added : 

“ But as every cloud has its silver lining, so has this 
dark pall which has overshadowed me so heavily. 1 can 
now offer you wealth as well as love, and this I dare say 
you will not object to. So, if you are not already at In¬ 
dianapolis, go there at once, and perhaps I will join you 
there after I have paid my respects to Mr. Forrest.* 

To Lawyer Russell he wrote as follows: 

“Vienna, April —,-. 

“ Mr. Thomas Russell :—Dear Sir —I have com¬ 
municated to Mr. Forrest the sad news of my sister’s 
death, and need not enter into the particulars with you, 
who will hear them from him. I write to you as the 
family lawyer, on another subject of which I cannot now 
speak to Mr. Forrest, lest he should misconstrue my 
motive, and think me anxious and premature in what I 
am about to say. As a lawyer of large experience you 
have undoubtedly already thought of the fortune willed 
to Rossie by Judge Forrest, and of which she died law¬ 
fully possessed, and you have probably thought what 
disposition would now be made of it. You know, of 
course, that Rossie always protested it was not hers 
rightfull} T , and that she should give it back to Everard 
as soon as she reached her majority. I, however, who 
am her lawful heir, do not see things as she did, and ara 
not disposed to throw away the good the gods provide. 
Still I am disposed to be generous and make over to 
Everard at once a portion of the property. As you must 
know more about the estate than any one except Everard 
himself, I wish you would be hunting up the matter, and 
getting into shape some statement or estimate of the 
value of the property, so there may be no unnecessary 
delay when I come to Rothsay, as I shall do at once. I 



TEE LETTERS. 


826 

have in New York a friend who is a shrewd, honest law 
yer, and I may bring him with me, not because I think 
there will be any trouble or opposition to my claim, but 
just to expedite matters and get them settled as soon as 
possible. 

“ Hoping that you fully understand and appreciate 
my motives, and that I shall find in you a friend and 
adviser, I am, yours truly, 

“John Matthewson.” 

The old lawyer read this twice ; then, with his hands 
under his coat-tails and his glasses on the top of his 
head, walked up and down his room, muttering to him¬ 
self : 

“ Just what I told Ned,—the man is a scoundrel, and 
he will, with all his fine talk of generosity, bring a New 
York lawyer here to see to it, as if he wouldn’t have fair 
play and get every cent his due, though I’ll be blamed if 
I wouldn’t take advantage of any quirk or loop-hole to 
crawl out of, if there was one, which there isn’t. As 
Rossie’s brother he is her heir, of course, and the whole 
thing goes to him, for I’ll bet my head Ned will never 
take a dollar. Poor boy, as if he hadn’t trouble enough 
with the loss of the girl, without this new thins: to 
bother.” 

And if ever a man stood in need of sympathy it was 
Everard, who seemed completely crushed, and who 
looked so white and changed that even his best friends 
forbore speaking to him of Rossie, though they talked 
much of her among themselves, and many tears were 
shed for the young girl who had been so great a favorite, 
and whose grave was so far away. That Everard loved 
her with more than a brother’s love was conceded now 
by all, and no one thought to blame him for it, but pitied 
him in his sorrow, which he did not try to conceal. 
When Lawyer Russell took the doctor’s letter to him, and 
asked what he thought of it, he evinced no surprise or 
dissatisfaction. 

“ That’s all right,” he said, “ he is her heir, and he shall 
have every dollar,—remember, every dollar. I would 
not take it from her, I will not have it from him ; and 
you must do the business for me. I give it into your 


THE NEW HEIR 


m 


hands. I cannot confer with him ; I should forget my¬ 
self sometime, and fly at his throat. I will give you all 
the papers pertaining to the estate. 1 have kept the 
matter perfectly straight, so there will be no trouble in 
finding just how much he is worth. Now mind, don’t 
you ever dare to think I will have a penny of the money, 
for I will not, so help me Heaven ! till Rossie rises from 
her grave to give it to me. Then you may talk to me^ 
and not till then.” 

This was Everard’s decision, which both Mr. Russell 
and Beatrice approved, though both mourned bitterly 
over the fate which gave Judge Forrest’s hoarded stores 
into the hands of one as unprincipled as Dr. Matthew- 
son, whose arrival was anxiously looked for. 


CHAPTER XLIY. 

THE NEW HEIR. 

E stepped from the car one June afternoon, ele¬ 
gantly habited in the latest Parisian style of 
coat, and vest, and hat, with a band of crape 
around the latter, and a grieved look on his 
handsome face, as if he were thinking of the 
dear little girl, dead so far away, and whose for¬ 
tune he had come to take. With him was a sharp, 
shrewd-looking man, with round, bright eyes,.which saw 
everything at a glance, and a decidedly foreign accent. 
To him the doctor always spoke in German, and in this 
language the two talked together for a few moments af¬ 
ter alighting upon the platform in Rothsay. Evidently 
they were not expected, for no one was there to meet 
them, but the doctor inquired for the best hotel, and 
making his way thither registered his own name and that 
of his friend, “Walter Klyne, Esq., New York City.” 
Then, engaging two of the best rooms in the house, and 
ordering dinner at seven o’clock, he started out to recon- 









THE NEW HEIR. 


m 

noiter, going first to Everard’s office and greatly aston¬ 
ishing the young man, who did not know that he had yet 
landed in New^ York. It might be thought, perhaps, 
that the sight of him, with his band of crape upon his 
hat, and the peculiar air of sadness he managed to infuse 
into his voice and maimer, would awaken in Eveiard a 
feeling of sympathy and kindness for one in wdiose soi- 
row he had "so large a part, but it produced just the con¬ 
trary effect, and though he went forward with offered 
hand to meet him, there swept over him a sensation of 
distrust, and aversion, and dread,—a feeling of horror 
for which he could not account, any more than he could 
explain the sudden chill which crept through his veins, 
as if Rossie’s cold, dead hands were touching his, and 
Rossie’s white, still face pressed against his own. 

Dr. Matthewson was very polite and very much 
afraid of wounding Everard’s feelings. He was sorry 
not to find Mr. Russell there, he said, as he wished to talk 
a little about business, and would like to go over the 
fforrest House, which he believed was shut up. 

Everard gave him the keys, and added, hurriedly : 

“ You will have no trouble whatever, as I have no in¬ 
tention to dispute your right to the property. It was 
lawfully Rossie’s, and, therefore, yours now.” 

It was the first time Rossie had been mentioned, and 
Everard felt as if his heart were bursting as he pro¬ 
nounced the name, while the doctor’s lip quivered, and 
he shut his eyes tight to keep the tears back. 

“ Thanks,” he said, as he took the offered keys. “ We 
will speak of business by and by, when I can trust myself 
to tell you more fully what your sister’s wishes were. 
Now, I only wish to see the house where she used to live. 
I will return the keys on my way back to the hotel. I 
wish you good evening, sir.” 

He lifted his hat courteously, and walked away with 
his friend, while Everard watched him for a moment 
with that same icy chill about his heart and the feeling 
as if from the darkness and silence of her far-off grave 
Rossie were beckoning to him and trying to warn him of 
danger. 

Meantime the two gentlemen went rapidly along the 

streets of Roth say, where, as strangers, they were stared 


THE NEW HE lit 


329 


at by the people, who watched them until they turned 
into the avenue leading to the Forrest House. 

“ A splendid inheritance ! I quite envy you, old boy,” 
Walter Klyne said, as they ascended the broad steps and 
stood upon the piazza. 

“Yes, it will do very well for a country house, but it 
will take a mint of money to fix it up as I’d like to have 
It,” was the doctor’s reply, as he fitted the key to the 
lock and entered the wide, old-fashioned hall, already be¬ 
ginning to grow dim with the shadows of the late after¬ 
noon. “It’s deuced cold, and damp, and ghost-like in 
here ; don’t you think so?” the doctor said, shivering a 
little as he hurried on through room after room, hardly 
seeing them at all, until he came to one, the door of 
which was open as well as the blind opposite, so that a 
dood of sunlight streamed through the window and fell 
across the floor. 

“ This is a jolly room ; let’s go in here,” Klyne said, 
entering himself, and looking curiously around, while the 
doctor stood by the threshold, wiping from his face 
great drops of sweat, and starting at every sound, as if 
he fancied the place full of something harmful. “Why, 
Hoc, what ails you ? You are white as a sheet. What’s 
the matter ?” Klyne asked, and the doctor replied : 

“ Nothing, only this was her room ; Rossie’s, you 
know. I am sure of it; she described it to me so often, 
and I feel as if she was here with us ; I do, upon my 
soul. That’s her chair, where she used to sit, and these 
must be her books, and that’s her bed where she used to 
sleep. Let’s go away ; it’s like a grave-yard to me.” 

He seemed so excited that his friend looked at him 
curiously, ^wondering if the glass of wine taken just be¬ 
fore they left the hotel had affected his brain, or if it 
really was true that his grief for his sister was aug¬ 
mented by the sight of her old home, and the objects 
which had once made a part of her life. 

“It’s not like John Matthewson to love any one like 
that. There’s a kink somewhere,” he thought, as he left 
the room and followed on through one apartment after 
another, until the whole had been gone through, and they 
went out into the open air, where the doctor seemed to 


830 


TEE NEW EE IE. 


be more at his ease. Taking off his hat and * 4 p ng hi# 
forehead, where the perspiration was standing, he said : 

“ This is a confounded hot night after all, or I am no 
judge of the weather, and this place in particular seems 
hotter than Tophet. I say, Walt, do you believe in 
ghosts, or haunted houses, or any of that sort of non¬ 
sense ?” 

“ Of course not. Why do you ask ?” Walter Klyne 
eaid; and the doctor replied : 

“ Because I was just nervous enough to fancy that 
the whole Forrest race, Rossie and all, were after me as 
I went over the lonesome old hut. Maybe they don’t 
like the idea of my being the heir, and that has brought 
them from their graves ; but I feel better now, and 
I think we will be going, or the dinner will be cold.” 

Early next morning the doctor interviewed Lawyer 
Russell, and at the close of the conference the doctor 
knew that as Rossie’s heir he was entitled to several 
hundred thousand dollars, some in lands and houses, some 
in bonds and mortgages, some in railroad shares and 
some in ready cash. The amount, so far exceeding what 
he had expected, surprised and delighted him, and inclined 
him'to be very generously disposed toward Everard, 
with whom he had one long talk. He had taken all the 
necessary steps to prove that Rossie died at Haelder- 
Strauchsen, Austria, on the evening of April 20th; he 
had eworn to that effect before the lawful authority; and 
he was accepted by r the public as the heir, though under 
protest, for there was no one in Rothsay who did not think 
it was a shame for Everard to be so defrauded of what 
ought always to have been his. This feeling the doctor 
perfectly understood, and it strengthened his resolution 
to be very generous toward the young man, to whom he 
offered half of the entire estate. 

“ Perhaps I ought to give you the whole,” he said, 
but hanged if I can quite bring myself to that. You 
see, when a poor chap like me gets a little money it is 
mighty hard to give it up.’ 7 

“ But I thought you had unlimited means in Europe,” 
Everard said; and without the slightest change of couh* 
tenance the doctor replied : 

“ I did have something there, though not so much ae 


THE NEW HEIR . 


. 381 


Rossie supposed. I deceived her purposely, thinking she 
would feel easier if she believed me very rich. Bat 
unluckily the firm failed where most of my money was 
deposited, so that I am much poorer now than when I 
went from America more than a year ago.” 

He seemed to be in earnest, and insisted that Everard 
should take half the property, until the latter stopped 
aim by saying decidedly: 

“ Your talk is all in vain, for I shall never take a dol 
lar of that money. It would prove a curse to me if 1 
did. I do not want it, I will not have it, and I only ask 
that I hear no more on the subject.” So saying he rose 
suddenly from his chair and left the room. The inter¬ 
view was ended ; the doctor had discharged his duty; 
and it was not his fault that he was a richer man by more 
than two hundred thousand dollars than he expected to 
be. On the whole, he felt quite satisfied with matters as 
they were, and would not quarrel with the good luck 
which had made him so rich that he need never again 
feel a moment’s anxiety. 

He had nothing more to do but to enjoy himself, and 
let others do so too, for that was part of his creed. 
Naturally generous and free, he was always ready to 
share his fortune with others, and he made up his mind 
at once to be very popular in Rothsay, and to begin by 
liberal gifts to every public and charitable object, as that 
was sure to win him favor. Walter Klyne, who served 
no purpose whatever, was retained, nominally as legal 
adviser, but really because under his smooth, placid ex¬ 
terior the doctor carried a coward’s heart, and did not 
like to be alone at the Forrest House, where he soon 
took up his quarters. There was an odor of aristocracy 
about the place which he liked, for it reminded him of 
some of the palaces in Europe which he had coveted, 
envying the possessor, and fancying how happy he 
should be were he the lord and owner. He was lord 
and owner now, with an income of more money than he 
bad ever had at any one time in his life. He had men- 
servants and maid-servants, and fast horses, and car¬ 
riages, and hunting-dogs, and choice cigars by the hun¬ 
dreds, and lare wines, which he drank as freely as water. 
He ordered several costly pictures from Munich and 


332 


TEE NEW EE IE 


Dresden, with statuary from Florence, and filled the 
halls and grounds with the latter, and fitted up a gallery 
for the former, and set up to be a connoisseur and critic 
general of fine art, and gained considerable reputation 
in that line, and was spoken of as a highly cultivated 
and generous man, of whom Rothsay would have been 
glad if his coming there had not been brought about by 
the death of the sweet young girl, whose memory was so 
fresh and green in the minds of her friends. He had the 
most expensive pew in church, and was present every 
Sunday morning, and joined reverently in the service, 
though his preference, he frankly said, was for the plain 
Methodist chapel ; and he made no secret that he had 
once been a Methodist clergyman, and said he should 
return to that body were it not that Rossie loved the 
church as a child loves its mother, and for her sake he 
should be a churchman, and instruct himself in all its 
usages and doctrines. So the Episcopalians claimed him, 
and made much of him, and took his gifts thankfully, 
and rejoiced that at last the Forrest money, which the 
judge had held so tightly, was being distributed among 
them in so liberal a manner. Could they have had their 
choice they would rather have seen Everard in his father’s 
house. Dr. Matthewson was genial and pleasant, and 
very generous, but in some sense he was an interloper, 
while Everard was to the manor born; the purple was 
his by birth ; the blue blood of Forrest and Bigelow 
was in his veins, and the people sympathized with and 
pitied him more than he ever dreamed. 

It was a very lonely life which he led that summer 
after Rossie’s death ; and with the exception of Beatrice 
he seldom talked with any one, excel t upon business, 
He could not mingle with his old friends and seem as he 
used to do, with that sad memory constantly in his heart; 
that grave always yawning before him, where he had 
buried his darling. A thought of Rossie was always 
with him; not as he saw her last, standing on the deck 
and waving him her farewell, with tears swimming in 
her eyes, and a look upon her face whose meaning he 
could readily interpret, but as she was when a little girl 
gporting on the terrace behind the house, or romping on 
the grounds, with the white sun-bonnet hanging down 


THE NEW HEIR. 


3S3 


her back, the strings chewed iuto a hard knot, her hair 
blowing about her face, and her starry eyes brightening 
when he joined her with his raillery and teasing jokes. 

Sometimes in the stillness of the night he almost 
fancied that he heard again the quick tread of the busy 
feet which had run so willingly for him, and always when 
his grief was at its height, and his heart aching the 
worst, he felt that pale, thin hands were beckoning him 
from out the darkness of the grave, beckoning him to 
come, as if the spirit could not rest until it was joined 
by his. Once, when the impression was very strong 
upon him, and it almost seemed as if the dead hands 
touched his and were leading him away, he said, aloud: 

“ Rossie, are you here ? Is there something you want 
me to do, and are you trying to tell me ? I’d go to the 
ends of the earth at your slightest bidding.” 

But to this appeal no answer came from the far-off 
grave across the sea, though the hands still seemed 
beckoning with a never-tiring persistence which moved 
and troubled him greatly. Had he been at all tainted 
with spiritualism as it exists in modern times, he might 
perhaps have sought through mediums to know what his 
love would tell him, but he was free from superstitions 
of all kind, except this one, that Rossie was calling to 
him, and that ere long it would be granted him to join 
her in the world beyond. And to this end he tried to 
make himself ready, praying earnestly as he never prayed 
before that God would lead him to himself in any path 
he chose, so that it conducted him at last to Heaven, 
where Rossie was. Well he knew that if he would find 
that rest, all sinful affections must be overcome, and he be 
made humble and submissive as a little child. At first, 
however, it was very hard to be submissive and humble, 
and harder still not to hate the man who had blasted his 
whole life, and who seemed to be riding triumphantly in 
the high and pleasant roads of success. But gradually 
the hardness began to give way as the new life within 
him became clearer and brighter, and though he could 
not bring himself to like the doctor or find pleasure in 
nis society, he could endure his presence, and no longer 
crossed the street to avoid meeting him if he saw him 
coming in the distance, and that was about all the prog- 


834 


THE NEW HEIR. 


ress he could make with him. He distrusted and dis 
liked him, and never on any occasion went near the For¬ 
rest House, which, as the summer advanced, the doctor 
filled with his friends from New York, men of Lis own 
class, who were as unlike Everard as he was unlike hie 
former self when he rebelled hotly against his fate and 
blamed the Almighty for having dealt so hardly with 
Him. He did not feel that way now, and every Sunday 
found him an occupant of his father’s old pew, where 
Rossie used to sit, and where he now knelt and prayed 
earnestly for grace to bear whatever might be in store 
for him, feeling, it is true, that nothing worse could hap¬ 
pen to him than had already happened,—the loss of 
Rossie and the loss of his estate. 

From Josephine he seldom heard. She was still in 
Indianapolis with her friends, but she did not write him 
often, and never asked for money. 

He had sent her a Rothsay paper which had in it a 
column and a half of matter concerning the disposition 
of the Forrest property, and the new proprietor, but she 
had made no comment. That she could not live at the 
Forrest House he knew, and that she would not return to 
Rothsay he devoutly hoped, and so he grew more quiet 
and contented each day, though there was ever with him 
a sense of bitter pain and a constant thought of the grave 
across the sea where Rossie was buried. 

And so the summer waned, and September came and 
went, and one morning in October a bombshell was 
thrown into Rothsay which made Everard stagger for a 
moment from the suddenness of its coming ; then he ral¬ 
lied, and his first sensation was one of intense relief, such 
as the prisoner feels when told that ere long he will be 
free again to go and come as he likes. 

It came first in the form of an article published in the 
Rothsay Star , and which was as follows : 

“ Divorce in High Life. —We learn from a friend 
residing in Indianapolis that there is a divorce suit pend¬ 
ing between two parties well known in Rothsay. The 
gentleman, in fact, is still a resident here, but the .ady is 
at present in Indianapolis, where she went last M?y with 
the intention of getting the divorce.” 


THE NEW HEIR. 


385 


Everard read this article twice before fully compre- 
lieuding its meaning. Then, when he knew he was one 
of the parties meant, that it was the Forrest name which 
must be mixed with the affair, his first feeling was one 
of shame and mortification, notwithstanding that he had 
once contemplated doing just what Josephine was doing 
for him. But his next feeling was one of intense relief 
that at last he would be free from the burden which had 
borne so heavily upon him. He went with the notice to 
Beatrice, who, although she disapproved of divorces as a 
rule, looked upon this as an exceptional case, and was 
glad for him. Of course all Rothsay talked, and gos¬ 
siped, and wondered, but asked no questions of Everard, 
who, outwardly, was just the same, and came and went 
as if nothing had happened or was likely to happen. 

Dr. Matthewson seemed as much surprised as any 
one, but offered no opinion whatever on the subject, and 
after a few days he went to New York with his insepara¬ 
ble friend and adviser, Walter Klyne. Four weeks 
later a notice was sent to Everard to the effect that a 
divorce from him had been granted to his former wife, 
who chose to take her maiden name, and was again 
Josephine Fleming ; also, that he, too, was divorced, 
with a right to marry again, if he chose. 

From that time onward Everard was a changed man. 
It is true that Rossie was always in his mind, and he never 
for a moment forgot the pain and loss, which it seemed 
to him grew greater every day, but the consciousness 
that Josephine had no claim upon him made him in one 
way very happy, and he felt freer from care and anxiety 
than he had done since that fatal night when he made 
the mistake of his life. That Josephine would marry 
again he was confident, and it did not need Beatrice’s 
hint, cautiously given, to awake in his mind a suspicion 
as to who the' man would be; and still it was a shock 
when it came to him early in the spring that the Forrest 
House was to have a mistress, and that its last occupant 
was coming back with a right to rule and reign and 
spend his father’s money as she chose. 


836 THE NEW REION AT THE FORREST HOUSE. 


CHAPTER XLV. 


THE NEW REIGN AT THE FORREST HOUSE. 



OCTOR MATTIIEWSON had spent most of 
the winter in New York, but of Josephine’s 
whereabouts little was known. She had been 
in New York, and Holburton, and Boston, 
where she was the guest of Mrs. Arnold, 
with whom she had been abroad, and whose good 
opinion she had succeeded in retaining by telling her a 
part only of the truth, and doing it in such a manner 
that she appeared to be the party to be pitied rather 
than Everard. Mrs. Arnold was not a person who looked 
very deeply into matters, she chose rather to take them 
as they seemed, and Josephine had been very faithful to 
her and her interest while they were abroad; and though 
she was shocked and surprised when she first heard the 
story of the marriage, Josephine told it so well for her¬ 
self as to make it appear that she had not been greatly in 
fault, and the lady believed her more sinned against than 
sinning, and invited her to her own home in Boston, 
where she was stopping somewhere about the middle of 
March, when word came to the man in charge of the For¬ 
rest House that the doctor, who had already been gone 
two months and more, would remain away still longer, 
and that wdien he returned Mrs. Matthewson would 
accompany him. Who Mrs. Matthewson was the letter 
did not state, but Beatrice readily guessed, and was not 
at all surprised when, a week later, she received a letter 
from Mr. Morton, who was still in Boston, and who 
wrote that he had been asked to officiate at the marriage 
of Miss Josephine Fleming with Dr. John Matthewson, 
said marriage to take place at the house of one of his 
parishioners, Mrs. Arnold, April 15th, at eleven o’clock, 

A. M. 

What Everard thought or felt when he heard the 
news he kept to himself, but the townspeople unani¬ 
mously disapproved of the match, and arrayed them- 





THE NEW REIGN AT THE FORREST HOUSE. 387 


selves against the bride elect and decided that she 
should be made to feel the weight of their disapproba 
tion, and kuow that they resented her marriage and 
coming back there to live as an insult to Everaid and an 
affront to themselves. Nor were they at all mollified by 
the arrival of cards inviting them to the wedding. There 
were in all a dozen invitations sent to as many families 
in. Rothsay, and Beatrice had a letter from Josephine, 
in which she tried to make everything seem fair and 
right with regard to the divorce and marriage, and 
hoped Miss Belknap would be friendly with her when 
she came back to Rothsay. 

“ For myself,” she added, “ I would rather not go 
where Everard is, and where his friends can hardly wish 
to see me. But the doctor is inexorable, and insists 
upon living at Rothsay a portion of the year at least. 
He likes the Forrest House, he says, and would not sell 
it for the world. It suits him for a summer residence, 
and we shall be there some time in June. He is very 
kind, and I trust that after the stormy life I have led 
there is a bright future in store for me, which, I assure 
you, I shall appreciate, and if I can atone for whatever 
has been wrong and questionable in the past I certainly 
shall do so.” 

And to do Josephine justice, she did mean to retrieve 
her character if possible, and be at least a true wife to 
the man who had chosen her, knowing perfectly well 
what she was and how little to be trusted. There was 
about Josephine a most powerful fascination for Dr. 
Matthewson, who thought her the most beautiful and 
attractive woman he had ever seen. And the doctor 
liked beautiful and attractive things; they suited his 
luxurious tastes, and Josephine was just the one to adorn 
the kind of home he was now able to have. She would be 
equal to any emergency, and he would enjoy the atten¬ 
tions she was sure to receive at the different watering- 
places and hotels, where he meant to take her. If any 
of her admirers should become too demonstrative he 
could easily rid himself of them and bring his wife under 
subjection, for he meant to be her master, and to do ex¬ 
actly as he pleased in everything, and he made a begin¬ 
ning by refusing to sell the Forrest House, as she wished 

15 


838 THE NEW REIGN AT THE FORREST HOUSE. 


him to do. For Josephine was determined not to go 
back to Rothsay, and at first made it a condition in mar 
rying the doctor that he should dispose of the place, or 
at least not require her to lrve there even for a few 
weeks. She had no wish to meet Everard, or to come in 
contact with his friends, who were sure to slight her now. 
But the doctor was resolved upon making the house into 
a kind of palace, where he could enjoy himself after his 
own ideas, and as he had not the slightest consideration 
for the wishes or feelings of others, he laughed at Jose- 
phine’s scruples, which he called whims, and carried his 
point with regard to the Forrest House, and the evening 
of the 15th of April there appeared in the Boston papers 
the following notice: 

“Married, this morning at ten o’clock, by the Rev. 
Theodore Morton, Dr. John Matthewson to Miss Jose¬ 
phine Fleming.” 

Washington and New York were the cities where 
the happy pair spent their honeymoon, and it was not 
until the middle of June that they took possession of 
their Rothsay house, which had undergone quite a 
transformation. All through the months of April and 
May carpenters from Cincinnati had been there, follow¬ 
ing out the plan which the doctor had forwarded to them 
with the most minute instructions. Bay-windows were 
sent out here, and hanging balconies there, and pretty 
little sunny nooks for plants were cut through the solid 
mason-work ; rooms were thrown together, trees were 
removed to admit more light and give finer views, until 
the stately, old-fashioned house assumed the appearance 
of a modern and rather graceful structure, which the 
Rothsayites, and even Beatrice herself, thought greatly 
improved. Every room was refurnished and changed in 
some way except Rossie’s,—which was left untouched. 
Not an article of furniture was changed or moved from 
its place. Some of Rossie’s books were on the shelf 
where she left them ; a work-box was on the table, and 
in the closet one or two half-worn dresses hung, a prey 
to any moth or insect which chose to fasten upon them. 
But the rest of the house was beautiful, and fresh, and 


THE NE W REIGN AT TEE FORREST HOUSE. 839 


cew, and ready for the bride, who came one afternoon 
in June, and was met at the station by the coachman, 
with the new carriage and high-stepping horses, which 
pawed the ground and arched their glossy necks as the 
long train swept by. 

There was no one there to meet the bride, for the 
marriage was very unpopular in town, and every door 
was virtually closed against the lady who, for once in 
her life, looked pale and tired, as she took her seat in the 
carriage, and leaning back wearily, said, to the doctor : 

“ Please take the straightest road home, for I am 
tired to death.” 

But if the doctor heard her he did not heed her re¬ 
quest. He had no feelings of shame or twinges of con¬ 
science. He wished the people to see his splendid turn¬ 
out, and they drove through Main street, past all the 
shops and offices, where the men and boys stared at them, 
and a few made a show of recognizing the courteous 
lifting of the doctor’s hat, and the patronizing wave of 
his hand. 

Josephine was closely vailed, and pretended not to see 
the ladies who were on the street, and who did not turn 
their heads as the elegant carriage went by. But Josey 
knew that they saw her, and felt that her worst fears 
were to be realized ; and when, at a sudden turn in the 
road, they came upon Beatrice, whose cool little nod 
seemed more an insult than a recognition, her cup of 
humiliation was full, and there were tears of mortifica¬ 
tion and anger in her eyes, and her headache was not 
feigned when at last they drew up before the house, 
where a strange woman was waiting to greet them. This 
was Mrs. Rogers, the housekeeper, imported for that 
purpose from Cincinnati, as were the other servants. 
These, however, had all heard the antecedents of their 
new master and mistress very freely discussed, and the 
result was that a mutiny was already in progress, for, as 
the girl who held the post of scullion said, “ she had lost 
one chci-rac-ter by living with folks who wasn’t fust cut, 
and she didn’t care to lose another.” Still, the wages 
were good, and all decided to stay a while, and see what 
the lady who had two husbands living and had once been 
a servant herself (such was the story as they had it) wag 


340 THE NEW REIGN AT THE FORREST HOUSE. 


likj?. So they came to meet her, and thought her verj 
handsome and stylish, and a fit occupant of the beautifu. 
rooms of which she was mistress, and for which she did 
not seem to care, for she never stopped to look at them, 
but went directly to her own apartments, which she did 
have the grace to say were pretty. 

“ Yes, it is all very nice,” she said to the doctor, “but 
I am frightfully tired, and nervous, too, I think. This 
last hot day’s ride has just upset me. I believe I’ll have 
a cup of tea brought to my room, and not go down to 
dinner, if you’ll excuse me.” 

“ You won’t do any such thing,” was the doctor’s re 
ply. “ You’ll put on one of your swell-dresses, and go 
down to dinner with me. I wish the servants to see you 
at your best, and somebody may call this evening.” 

“ Somebody call !” Josephine retorted, with intense 
bitterness in her voice. “ Don’t flatter yourself that any 
one whom I care for will call to-night, or ever, while I 
remain in Rothsay.” 

“ Why, what do you mean ?” the doctor asked, and 
she replied : 

“ I mean that as Everard Forrest’s divorced wife, 
married to another man, I am to be tabooed in this town. 
Didn’t you notice how the ladies we passed on the street 
pretended to be looking another way so as not to see me. 
They did not wish to recognize me even with a nod, and 
you surely noticed the insulting bow which Miss Belknap 
gave me. There w^as not a particle of cordiality in it. I 
knew it would be so, and that w r as why I was so opposed 
to coming here. I wish I had remained firm to my first 
resolution.” 

She was more than half crying with anger and vexa¬ 
tion, but the doctor only laughed at what he termed her 
groundless fears. Supposing she was a divorced woman, 
with her first husband living in the same town, what did 
that matter ? He knew of many such instances, and if 
the people in Rothsay were disposed to slight him at 
first, he should live it down, for money could accomplish 
everything. 

But Josephine was not to be soothed by his words, 
and bade him mind his business and leave her to herself. 
It was the first ebullition of temper she had shown 


THE NEW HEIGH AT THE FORREST HOUSE. 341 


toward him ; so he received it good-humoredly, and 
touched her playfully under her chin, and had his way 
in everything, and took down to dinner a most beauti¬ 
ful and elegantly-dressed woman, who looked as if made 
for just the place she was occupying at the head of that 
handsomely appointedtable. 

No one called either that evening, or the next, or the 
next, and when Sunday came she was really sick with 
mortification and disappointment, and the doctor went to 
church without her, and met only cold words from those 
to whom he tried to talk after service was over. Nobody 
mentioned his wife, although he spoke of her himself, 
and said that she was sick, and asked Mrs. Rider to tell 
her husband to call in the afternoon and see her. Even 
that ruse failed, for there was no solicitude expressed for 
the lady’s health, no inquiry as to what ailed her, and 
the doctor drove home in his handsome carriage, feeling 
that after all Josephine might be right, and that the peo¬ 
ple were determined to show their disapprobation. But 
he meant to live it down, and not let the good fortune 
he had so coveted turn to ashes on his hands. But living 
it down was not so easy as he had supposed, and as day 
aftei day went by, and no one came to see his grandeur, 
or paid the least attention to him, his spirits began to 
flag, and he half-suspected that he had made a mistake 
in bringing his wife to Rothsay, where the Forrest star 
was evidently in the ascendant. 

Once he decided to fill the house with young men 
from New York and Cincinnati, but when he thought of 
Josey he gave that up, for his love, or rather passion* 
for her w r as strong enough to make him wish to keep her 
smiles and blandishments for himself; and so the New 
York guests were given up, and he spent his time driving 
his fast horses through the country during the morning, 
and in the afternoon lounging, and smoking, and read¬ 
ing, and looking over his handsome house until his elab¬ 
orate dinner, which was served at half-past six, and no- 
tice of which was given to the portion of the town 
nearest him by the loud bell which he caused to be rung 
as a signal to himself and wife that dinner was ready. 
The doctor was very particular and exacting on every 
point of table etiquette, and required as much form, and 


843 TELB NEW REIGN A T THE FORREST HOUSE. 


ceremony, and attention, as if a multitude ot guests sa? 
daily at his board, instead of himself and Josephine, 
who was always elegantly dressed in silks, and laces, and 
diamonds, and looked a very queen as she took her seat 
at the head of her table with a languor which was 
not feigned, for in her heart she was tired and sick to 
death of the grand, lonely life she led. Nobody came 
near her, and when by chance she met any of her old 
acquaintances they were too much hurried to do more 
than bow to her; while even the tradespeople lacked that 
deference of manner which she felt was her due. The 
doctor seldom asked her to join him in his drives, and as 
she did not care to go out alone and face the disapprov¬ 
ing public, she spent her time mostly in her room read¬ 
ing French novels and eating candy and bonbons, with 
which she was always supplied. 

Everard she had never met face to face, though she 
had seen him in the distance from her window, and 
watched him as he went by with a strange feeling at her 
heart which wrung a few hot, bitter tears from her, as 
she remembered the summer years ago when her boy- 
lover was all the world to her, and the life before her 
seemed so-fair and bright. Not that she really wanted 
Everard back, but she wanted something ; she missed 
something in her life which she longed for intensely, and 
at last made up her mind that it was Agnes, the despised 
sister, who was in Holburton, earning her own living as 
housekeeper for Captain Sparks. 

When they first returned to the Forrest House, Dr. 
Matthewson had signified to her his wish that Agnes 
should remain where she was. She would hardly be 
ornamental in his household, he said. He liked only 
beautiful objects around him, and Agnes was not beauti¬ 
ful. She would be an ugly blot upon the picture, and he 
did not want her, though he was willing to supply her 
with money, if necessary. But Agnes did not wish for 
his money. She could take care of herself, and was 
happier in Holburton than she could be elsewhere. But 
as the summer went by, the longing in Josephine’s heart 
for the companionship of some woman grew so strong 
that she ventured at last to write, begging her sister to 
come, and telling how lonely she was without her. 


THE LETTER FROM AUSTRIA. 


348 


“I have been hard and selfish, and wicked, I know,” 
she wrote, “ but, Aggie, I am far from being happy, and 
I want you here with me so much that I am sure you 
will come. I believe I am sick or nervous, or both, and 
the sight of your dear old face will do me good.” 

Josephine did not tell her husband of this letter, lest 
he should forbid her sending it. She was beginning to 
be a good deal afraid of him, but she thought she knew 
him well enough to feel sure that if Agnes were once in 
the house he would make no open opposition to it, and 
she was willing to bear a good deal in private for the sake 
of having her sister with her again. So she wrote her 
letter, and as the day was fine, took it to the post-office 
herself, in order to insure its safety. 


CHAPTER XLYI. 

THE LETTER FROM AUSTRIA. 

HERE had been some trouble with the clerks 
in the post-office at Rothsay, and two new 
ones had just been appointed, and one of 
these had entered upon his duties only the 
day before. As he came from Dayton, and 
was a stranger in town, he knew very few people by 
sight, and was altogether ignorant of the name and ante¬ 
cedents of the beautiful lady, who, after depositing her 
letter, asked if there was any mail for the Forrest House. 
Half-bewildered with her beauty and the bright smile 
she flashed upon him, the clerk started and blushed, and 
catching only the name Forrest, looked in Everard’s box, 
where lay a letter not yet called for, as Everard had left 
town early that morning for a drive into the country, 
where he had some business with a client. It was a soiled- 
looking letter, with a foreign post-mark upon it, and had 
either been mislaid a long time after it had been written, 
or detained upon the road, for it was worn upon th# 








TEE LETTER FROM AUSTRIA . 


<>•14 

edges, and had evidently been much crumpled with fro 
quent handling. It was directed to J. Everard Forrest, 
Esq., Roth say, Ohio, U. S. A., and in a corner, the two 
words, “Please forward ” were written, as if the writer 
were in haste and thought thus to expedite matters. 

Very mechanically, and even indifferently, Josephine 
ook it in her hand, and glancing at the name saw the 
clerk had made a mistake and given her what belonged 
to another. But she saw, too, something else, which 
turned her white as ashes, and riveted her lor a moment 
to the spot with a feeling that she was either dying o r 
mad, or both. Surely , she knew that writing. She had 
seen it times enough not to be mistaken. And she had 
thought the hand which penned it dead long ago, and 
laid away under the grass and flowers of Austria. u Eos- 
sie ,” she tried to say, but her white lips would not move, 
and there was about them a strange prickling sensation 
which frightened her more than the numbness of her body, 

“ I must get into the air where I can breathe,” she 
thought, and with a desperate effort she dragged herself 
to the street, taking the letter with her, and grasping it 
with a firm grip as if fearful of losing it, when in fact 
she had forgotten that she had it at all, until the air 
blowing on her face revived her somewhat and brought 
her back to a consciousness of what she was doing. 

Then her first impulse was to return the letter to 
Everard’s box, and she turned to go back when she saw 
her husband entering the office, and that decided her. 
She would not let him see the letter, for if there were a 
great wrong somewhere, he knew it and had contrived 
it, and the cold sweat broke out from every pore as 
she began dimly to conjecture tlie nature of the wrong, 
and to shudder at its enormity. She was feeling stronger 
now, and fearful lest her husband should overtake her 
she hurried across the common toward home, where she 
went at once to her room, and, locking the door, sat 
down to read that letter from the dead. She had made 
up her mind to do that during her rapid walk. fcliQ 
must know its contents, and so she broke the seal 
and began to read. And as she read she felt the 
blood curdle in her veins ; there was a humming in her 
ears; a thick feeling in her tongue, and a kind of con 


THE LETTER FROM AUSTRIA. 


345 


sciousness that she was somebody else, whose business 
for the rest of her life was to keep the letter and its con¬ 
tents a secret from the world. But where could she 
aide it that no one could ever find it, for nobody must 
see it? Safety, honor, everything dear to her depended 
upon that. Not even her husband must look upon it or 
know that it was written; and where should she put it 
that he would not find it, for he took the liberty to look 
through her private drawers and boxes just when it 
pleased him to do so ? She could not put the letter in a 
box or keep it about her person, and she dared not de¬ 
stroy it, though she made the attempt and lighted the gas 
in which to burn it to ashes. But as she held it to the 
blaze something seemed to grasp her hand and draw it 
back. And when she shook off the sensation of fear 
which had seized her, and again attempted the destruc¬ 
tion of the note, the same effect was produced, and an 
icy chill crept over her as if it were a dead hand clutch¬ 
ing hers and holding it fast. 

“ I can’t destroy it; I dare not l v she whispered; “ and 
what if somebody should find it ? What if he should ? 
He told me once that he had been guilty of every sin but 
murder, and under strong provocation he might be led 
to do even that;” and a shudder of fear ran through her 
frame as she cast about in her own mind for a safe hid¬ 
ing-place for the letter which affected her so strangely. 
Suddenly it came to her that she could loosen a few tackr 
in the carpet, just where the lace curtains covered tho 
floor in a corner of the bay-window, and pushing the let¬ 
ter out of sight, drive the tacks in again, and so the se¬ 
cret would be safe, for a time at least. To do her jus¬ 
tice, for once in her life conscience was prompting her 
to the only right course left her to pursue,—give the let¬ 
ter to Everard and abide the consequences. But she 
could not make up her mind to do this, knowing that ut¬ 
ter poverty and disgrace would be the result, and she 
had learned by this time that poverty with Dr. Matthew- 
son would be a far different thing from poverty with 
Everard. 

To hide the letter under the carpet was the work of 
a moment, and, unlocking the door, she was going for a 
hammer, with which to drive the tacks, when she heard 


THE LETTER FROM AUSTRIA. 


816 


her husband’s voice in the hall below, and knew that he 
was corning. He must not know that she held his guilty 
secret, lest he should murder her, as in her nervousness 
she felt that he might do, and so she retraced her steps 
to the couch, where she lay half fainting, and as white 
as marble, when the doctor entered the room and asked 
her what was the matter. 

She did not know, she said ; she had been down 
to the village and walked rather fast, and was very 
warm, and had drank freely of ice-water, which made 
her feel as if her head were bursting. She should prob¬ 
ably feel better soon. 

But she did net get better, and she lay all that day 
and the next upon the couch, and seemed so strange and 
nervous that her husband called in Dr. Rider, who, after 
a few questions, the drift of which she understood, and 
to which she gave false replies for the purpose of mis¬ 
leading him, assigned a cause for her ailments, and then 
went away. Thus deceived, and on the whole rather 
pleased than otherwise, Dr. Matthewson was disposed 
to be very attentive and indulgent to his wife, with 
whom he sat a good portion of each day, humoring all 
her whims and trying to quiet her restless, nervous state 
of mind. 

“You act as if you were afraid of me, Josey,” he said 
once, when he sat down beside her and put his arm 
around her with something of the old lover-like fondness. 
“You tremble like a leaf if I touch you, and shrink 
away from me. What is it ? What has come between 
us ? You may as well tell, for I am sure to find it out 
if there is anything.” 

She knew that, and it seemed to her as if his eyes 
were following hers to the bay window and seeing the 
letter hidden under the carpet. She must say something 
by way of an excuse, and with her ready tact she an¬ 
swered him : “ I am keeping something from you. I 
have written Aggie to come to me. I was so lonesome 
3nd sick, and ’wanted her so much. You are not angry, 
are you ?” 

Her great blue eyes were swimming with genuine 
tears, for she was a little afraid of what her husband 
might say to the liberty she had taken without his per 


TEE LETTER FROM AUSTRIA. 


347 


mission. Fortunately, tie was in one of his most genial 
moods. Dr. Rider had said to him privately that in hei 
present nervous condition Josephine must not be crossed ; 
and he answered laughingly that he was not angry, but 
on the contrary, very glad Aggie was coming, as he 
believed her a capital nurse; and “Josey,” he added, 
you need building up. You are growing as thin as a 
shad and white as a sheet, and that I don’t like. I thought 
you would never fade and fall off like Bee Belknap. I 
met her this morning, and she positively begins to look 
like an old maid. I hear she is to be married soon,” and 
he shot a keen, quick glance at his wife, into whose pale 
cheeks the hot blood rushed at once, and whose voice 
was not quite steady as she asked : 

“ Married,—to whom ? Not Everard ?” 

“ No-o,” the doctor answered, contemptuously, an¬ 
noyed at Josephine’s manner. “I hope site has more 
sense than to marry that milksop, who has grown to be 
more like a Methodist parson than anything else. You 
called him a milksop yourself, once,” he continued, as he 
saw the flash in Josephine’s eyes, “and you must not 
blame me for taking my cue from you, who know him 
better than I do. I believe, on my soul, you half feared 
he was going to marry, and were sorry for it. He is 
nothing to you. A woman cannot have two husbands; 
that’s bigamy.” 

The doctor was growing irritable, and Josephine 
knew it, but she could not forbear answering him 
tartly: 

“ There are worse crimes than bigamy,—a great deal, 
—and they are none the less worse because the world 
does not know of them.” 

“What do you mean?” he asked, sharply, and Jose* 
phine replied: 

“Nothing in particular; only you told me once that 
you had broken every commandment except the one 
‘ Thou shalt do no murder,’ and that you might break 
that under strong provocation. Of course there are sins 
at your door not generally known. Suppose some one 
should be instrumental in bringing them or the worst of 
them to light ?” 

“ Then I might break the only commandment you 


348 


AGNES FINDS THE LETTER. 


Bay I have not broken,” be answered, and in the eyes 
bent so searchingly on Josephine’s face there was an 
evil, threatening look, before which she quailed. 

She must never let him know of the letter hidden 
under the carpet, and watched by her so carefully. 
Every day she went to the spot to make sure it was 
there, and every day she read it again until she knew it 
by heart, and had no need to read it except to see if she 
had not by some chance made a mistake and read it 
wrong. But she had not; the proof was there, of crime, 
and guilt, and sin, such as made her terribly afraid of 
the man who fondled and caressed her now more than 
he had done in weeks, and who at last welcomed Agnes, 
when she came, even more warmly than she did herself, 
though in not quite so demonstrative a manner. 

Agnes had gone straight to her sister’s room, which 
Josephine had not left since the day she took the foreign 
letter from the office and hid it under the carpet. She 
had become a monomaniac on the subject of that letter, 
and dared not leave lest some one should find it, but sat 
all day in her easy-chair, which had been drawn into the 
bay window, and stood directly over her secret. And 
there Rhe sat when Agnes came in, and then, as if all her 
remaining nerves had given way, she threw her arms 
around her neck and sobbing out, “ Oh, Aggie, I am glad 
you have come; I could not have borne it much longer,” 
fainted entirely away. 


CHAPTER XLVII. 

AGNES FINDS THE LETTER. 

E there was one thing more than another 
which Agnes detested, it was carpet-bugs; 
those little black pests which, within a few 
years, have crept into the houses in certain 
sections of the country, carrying with them 
ruin to whatever they fasten upon, and dismay and 








AGNES FINDS TEE LETTER. 


349 


wretchedness to those who will persist in huLting for 
them. Among the latter class was Agnes, who, from 
the moment the cry of carpet-bugs was raised in Holbur- 
ton, had spent half her time upon her hands and knees, 
searching for them on the edges of the carpets, and the 
rest of her time hunting them in bundles, and boxes, and 
drawers. They seemed to owe her a special spite, for 
they had eaten her woolen shawl, and her furs, and her 
best delaine dress, and life was becoming a burden to 
her, when she received Josephine’s letter, begging her to 
come at once to the Forrest House. 

Always ready at a kind word to forgive her sister for 
any amount of unkindness, Agnes decided at once to go, 
feeling that it would be some comfort to escape from the 
dreadful bugs. She did not think they had yet reached 
Rothsay ; but she meant to make it her first business to 
hunt for them, and equipped herself with all the ingre¬ 
dients named in the category for their extirpation. Per¬ 
sian powder, red pepper, Scotch snuff, cut tobacco, Paris 
green, hellebore, and even Prussic acid formed a portion 
of her luggage when she reached the Forrest House, and 
found her sister so ill and weak that for a time she had 
no thought for carpet-bugs, and had there been an army 
there they would have reveled in perfect security for all 
of her interference. But after a few days, when Josephine 
seemed better and was sleeping quietly, the desire foi 
research and battle came upon her again, incited by the 
softness of the velvet carpet in her sister’s room, which 
she thought furnished such a rich field for the marauders. 
As it happened, the bay-window was the point at which 
ghe commenced operations, as it was farthest from Jo¬ 
sephine’s bed. 

“ They have been here, too,” was her whispered ex¬ 
clamation as she caught sight of the familiar sign, the 
sarpet loosened from the floor ; and eager in her search 
she turned the carpet back farther and farther until she 
saw the corner of the letter just protruding in sight. To 
draw it out and glance at the name upon it, “J. 
Everard Forrest,” was the work of a moment, and then 
she wondered how it came there, and if it were some old 
thing received by Everard years ago, and left lying 
about as something of no interest to him or anybody. It 


850 


AGNES FINDS THE LETTER . 


looked old and worn, and as if it had been read many 
times. Surely there could be no harm in her glancing at 
the contents just to see if it were of any value. 

Thus reasoning, Agnes opened the letter, saw the 
signature and the date, and then with lightning rapidity 
read the whole, and Josephine’s secret was hers no 
longer, for Agnes had it, and the effect on her at first 
was almost as great as it had been on Josephine. That 
a g?eat wrong had been committed she w~as certain, just 
as she was certain that the letter was being withheld 
from its rightful owner. But by whom ? That was the 
question she asked herself during the moment she sat 
motionless upon the floor, unable to move, or scarcely 
think clearly, in her bewildered state of mind. She did 
not quite believe it was Josephine, and if not, then it 
must be Dr. Matthewson, and he, if the letter were true, 
was capable of anything wicked and bad ; and there came 
over her a great fear of him just as it had crept over 
Josephine when she first knew his sin. Agnes must not 
let him know what she had found, and, believing Jose¬ 
phine innocent, she must not disturb her, and add to her 
nervousness. Everard, she had heard, was out of town 
for a little vacation, which he usually took at that sea¬ 
son, and Miss Belknap was therefore the only person in 
whom she could safely confide. 

“ She will know just what to do,” Agnes thought, 
and, hiding the letter in her pocket, she arranged the 
carpet and curtains very carefully, put the easy-chair in 
its place, and was at her sewing by the window when 
Josephine awoke, after a sleep of nearly two hours’ dura¬ 
tion. 

She was feeling better, and was disposed to be very 
kind and indulgent toward Agnes, who, she saw, was 
looking tired and pale. 

“ Why, Agnes,” she said, “ you are almost as white 
as I am. What is the matter? You have been shut up 
too closely with me. You have not been out since you 
came, and you are so accustomed to the air and exercise. 
Suppose you go for a walk. I am sure it will do yon 
good.” Now was Agnes’ opportunity, and saying that 
she thought a walk would do her good, she hurried from 
the room, and was soon on her way towards Elm Park. 


A ONE8 FINDS TEE LETTER 


851 


Beatrice was going to be married, and not withstand 
ing what Dr. Matthewson had said of her faded looks, 
she had never been so beautiful and sweetly attractive 
in her fresh girlhood as she was now at twenty-nine, 
with the great happiness shining in her face and show¬ 
ing itself in every action. Poor, nervous Mollie was 
not forgotten, for her memory lived in her lovely chil¬ 
dren, Trix and little Bunchie ; but Theodore had felt it 
right to claim at last his early love, who was not 
ashamed to confess how dear he was to her and how glad 
she was to be his wife and the mother of his children. 

The wedding, which was to be very private, was to 
take place the 15th of September, now only two weeks 
in the distance, and Beatrice was exceedingly busy with 
her preparations,—so busy that she had not found time 
to call upon Agnes, as she intended to do when she 
heard of her arrival at the Forrest House. She had al¬ 
ways liked Agnes, and was glad when her maid came to 
her room saying that she was in the parlor waiting to 
see her. 

44 Ask her to come up here,” she said, and in a moment 
Agnes was with her, seeming so agitated and excited 
that Beatrice guessed at once that something was wrong, 
and asked what was the matter. 

It was not in Agnes’ nature to keep one in suspense, 
and she answered by putting the letter into Beatrice’s 
hand and saying : 

44 1 found it under the carpet, and because 1 dared 
not show it to him,—the doctor, I mean,—who I am sure 
put it there, I brought it to you. Read it quick, and 
then w 3 must act together ; but never let him know I 
had a hand in it; he would kill me if he did ; there’s 
murder in his nature, or he never could have done this.” 

Agnes was speaking to ears which did not hear what 
she was saying, for Bee had taken the letter, post¬ 
marked at 44 Wien,” and addressed in a handwriting she 
knew so well, and the very sight of which made her 
heart throb with pain as she remembered the dear little 
girl whom she believed to be dead in the far-away for¬ 
eign town. But when she glanced at the date, a vague 
terror seized her and held her fast while ?he read the 
letter, which I give to the reader : 


868 


AGNES FINDS THE LETTED. 


“ Haeldhr-S'i eauouskn, Austria, [ 
June 10 th, 18—. | 

“Dear Everard:—A re you dead? Is everybody 
dead in America, that I am forgotten,—deserted,—and 
left here alone in this dreadful place ? Not dreadftL 
because they are unkind to me, for tlu-y are not. Only 
they say that I am mad, and treat me as such, and I al¬ 
ways have an attendant watching what I do, and I can 
not get away, though I have tried so many times. 
Where my brother is I do not know ; he left me here 
more than a year ago, to go to Vienna for a day or two, 
he said, and I have never seen him since or heard from 
him ; and the head of the house,—Dr. Van Schoisner, 
says that he is undoubtedly dead ; and I might believe 
him, perhaps, if he did not insist that I am his niece, 
Myra Van Schoisner, and not Rosamond Hastings at all. 
He says she died last April, a year ago, and was buried 
by the river which I can see from my window, and that 
her brother, Dr. Matthewson, left soon after and has not 
returned. 

“Oh, Everard, it is all so dreadful, and sometimes 
my head buzzes and feels so big that I am afraid I shall 
go crazy, as they say I am. I have written and written 
to you and Bee and Lawyer Russell, and even to my 
brother, hoping he might be living ; but no answer has 
come, and now I do not think my letters ever left this 
Maison-de-Sante, as they call the institution, which 
stands several miles back from the Danube. Take the 

boat at Lintz, and get off at-, and come quick, and 

get me away from here before I die. I wonder I have 
not died before this, it is so awful to be shut up and 
called somebody else, and hear only a foreign language, 
of which at first I could not understand °a word, and 
they tried not to let me learn. Only the doctor speaks 
English, and a woman called Yulah Van Eisner, whe 
came as attendant two months ago, and who has nro m . 
ised to get this letter off for me. 

“ I spoke brother’s name to her,—Dr. Matthewson,— 
and she almost foamed at the mouth, and actually spit 
upon me because I was his sister; but I made her know I 
was good, made her listen to me : and she became un¬ 
friend, and taught me to speak with her, and will help 



AGNES FINDS THE LETTER. 


353 


me to get away if she can. She says my brother is siot 
dead ; he is a villain, and wants my money ; and that 
Myra Van Schoisner is in the grave where they say I am; 
and it’s all horrible, and I am so sick and frightened, and 
bo afraid I shall be mad if you don’t come quick. 

“ Dear, dear Everard, come to your poor 

“ Rossie.” 

This was all Rossie had written, but a postscript had 
been added, in a cramped, uneducated hand, and broken 
English, to this effect : 

“ I open this paper to tell when comes come to Hotel 
Rother Krebs , in Lintz, where I is work zu hause , and 
wait for die Amerikaner. Asks for Yulah Van Eisner. 

1 hates him much.” 

To say that Beatrice’s nerves were shaken by this let¬ 
ter would be putting in very mild language just how 
}he felt. With her usual quickness of perception, she 
saw and understood the diabolical plot which had been 
so long successful, and her first impulse was to rush 
through the streets of Rothsay, and, proclaiming the 
doctor’s perfidy, have him arrested at once. Her next 
and soberer thought was to proceed in the matter more 
quietly and surely, and to this end she questioned Agnes 
minutely as to where and how she found the letter, and if 
she could throw any light upon the way in which it came 
there. But Agnes could not; she only knew she had found 
it, and that she believed Dr. Matthewson himself had by 
some foul method obtained possession of it and hidden 
it away for safe keeping, though why he had not de¬ 
stroyed it and so made its discovery impossible, neither 
she nor Beatrice could guess. Her sister, she said, was 
in a very strange, nervous state of mind, but she could 
not connect her with the crime in any way, for, unscru¬ 
pulous as she might be, she would not dare make herself 
amenable to the law by being a party to her husband’s 
guilt. 

This was Agnes’ view of the matter, and Beatrice 
coincided with her, but bade her to be very watchful 
at the Forrest House and see if any search was made fcs 

the missing letter, and by whom. 


854 


AGNES FINDS THE LETTER. 


Beatrice’s next interview was with Lawyer Russell, 
who, in his surprise, bounded from his chair half way 
across the room as he exclaimed : 

“Lord bless my soul, Rossie alive ! Rossie not dead 
but hid away in a private mad-house ! It’s the most 
hellish plot I ever heard of,—ever,—and it is State 
prison for him, the villain ; but we must move cautious 
ly. Miss Belknap, very cautiously, as we have the very 
uid Nick to deal with in that doctor. I’m glad the boy 
is gone just now, as it would have been like you to have 
blated it out to him, and then all creation couldn’t have 
stopped him from throttling the wretch in the street and 
spoiling everything. This letter was written long ago, 
and there’s no knowing what may have happened since 
to our little girl. She may be dead sure enough now, 
or, what is worse, mad in real earnest. So don’t go to 
kicking up a row just yet, till we get more proof, and 
then we’ll spring the trap so tight that he cannot get 
away. I’m honestly afraid, though, that he has done 
something worse with the little girl since he had this 
letter, which the Lord only knows how he got. He must 
have a key to Everard’s drawer ; but we’ll fix him ! and, 
Miss Belknap, I say, you or somebody must go to Europe 
and hunt up poor little Rossie. I’ll be hanged if it don’t 
make me cry to think of her shut up, and waiting and 
waiting for us to come. Go on your wedding trip. You 
and the parson will do better than Everard, whose name 
they have heard, and for whom they may be on the 
watch. Morton is new to them, and will excite no sus¬ 
picion. This girl,—what’s her name,—Yulah Yan Eisner, 
must be found first, of course, if she is not already put 
out of the way, and with her help you’ll fetch her, poor 
little girl. You ought to go right away, and we’ll say 
nothing to Everard till you’ve found her. Suspense and 
then disappointment would kill him outright. And he 
must not go ; that hound would track him sure, and 
everything be spoiled. You must do it, and you can, 
better than anybody else.” 

Beatrice felt that she could too, and had rapidly 
concocted in her mind a denouement both startling and 
novel, and highly satisfactory. But there was one diffi¬ 
culty to be surmounted, Theodore’s people might not 


AGNES FINDS THE LETTER . 


355 

be willing for him to be gone so long, and in that case 
she said : 

“ I’ll postpone the wedding and go alone.” 

But this was not necessary, for, in response to the 
long letter which went that night to Boston, there 
came a telegram, “I can go!” and then *11 Bee’s 
thoughts were turned to the work she had on hand, 
and she grew so restless and nervous and impatient for 
the day when she could start that people noted and 
commented upon her changed looks and manner, won¬ 
dering greatly what ailed her, and if her heart were 
not in the marriage. 

Everard was in Rothsay now, and with her every 
evening, talking always of Rossie, whose grave he bade 
her be sure and find, and bring him something from it, 
if only a blade of grass. Once he startled her by saying 
he had half made up his mind to join her party, and go 
with her, so great was his desire to see where Rossie 
was buried. But Bee turned upon him so fiercely, de¬ 
claring that she preferred going alone with Theo, that 
he abandoned the plan altogether, and felt a little hurt 
at the vehemence with which his company had been 
rejected. 

The wedding was very quiet and small, and the bride 
very absent-minded and non-committal in her answers 
to their inquiries as to where she was going, and how 
long she expected to be gone. But whatever they 
might have thought of her, the bridegroom was per¬ 
fectly satisfied, and seemed supremely happy as he bade 
his friends good-by, and followed his impatient wife into 
the car which was to take them to New York, and the 
ship, which, on the 15th of September, sailed away for 
Europe, where they hoped to find poor Rossie. 

Agnes was at the wedding, and, with the exception 
of Lawyer Russell, was the only one who had the slight¬ 
est suspicion of the reason which had taken the newly- 
wedded pair so suddenly to Europe. But Agnes was 
safe as the grave, though often at her wits’ end to know 
what to make of her sister, who grew worse instead of 
better, and who sometimes talked and acted as if she 
had lost her reason. She had missed the letter from its 
hiding-place, and gone nearly wild in her exc tement and 


LA MATSON BE SANTE. 


S5S 


anxiety as to who had found it. But as her husband’s 
manner was unchanged, except as he fretted at her con¬ 
tinued illness, she gradually grew more quiet, though 
there was constantly with her a presentiment of some 
great evil which was to be brought about by means of 
the lost letter. 


CHAPTER XL V III. 

LA MAISON DE SANTE. 

where it was situated, how far from 
enna, how far from Lintz, or how far from 
3 Danube, does not matter to the reader, 
10 needs only to know that there was such 
place, embowered in trees, and flowers, and 
shrubs, and seeming to the casual passer-by like a second 
little Eden, where one had nothing to do but to enjoy 
the brightness of the Austrian skies, and the beauty of 
the premises around. But every door w’as barred, and 
every window had a net-w T ork of iron in front of it, 
through which white, haggard faces looked wistfully, and 
strange, wild laughs, mingled sometimes with cries of 
rage, were heard to issue at all hours of the day. Fre¬ 
quently the inmates of that house, or those who were on 
the “ good list,” walked in the beautiful grounds, but 
never -walked alone. An attendant was always with 
them, watchful, vigilant, without, however, seeming to 
be so ; for the rule of the house was kindness, whenever 
it w T ould answer, and as much freedom as was compatible 
with safety. Except in extreme cases, w r here the patient 
was poor and obscure, it was not a cruelly conducted 
household w 7 hich Baron or Doctor Van Schoisner had in 
charge ; but in all the world there was not, perhaps, a 
more avaricious, grasping man than the baron, who would 
have sold his soul for thirty pieces of silver, and for 
forty almost have consented to a murder. If, for pur* 
poses oi their own, people wished to incarceiate their 









LA MAI80N DE SANTE. 


867 


friends, and paid him well for it, their secret was safe 
with him, and the victim was insane as long as he lived, 
if necessary. But there his wickedness ceased, and his 
patients were generally made as happy and comfortable 
as it was possible to make them. He, alone, held the 
secrets of his employers. Not a whisper of the truth 
ever escaped his lips, and to his attendants everybody 
was crazy, and must be watched and treated as such, no 
matter what were their pretensions to the contrary ; so 
when poor little Rossie awoke one morning to find her¬ 
self deserted, she became at once a lunatic. All liberty 
of action was gone ; even her name was taken from her, 
and she was told that the Rosamond Hastings who she 
professed to be, was dead, and lying under the grass 
where the wild violets were growing, while she was 
Myra , the niece of the baron, who had come to the 
house the same night with the beautiful American girl 
who was so sick, and who had died in a few days. No 
wonder if for a time her brain reeled, and she was in 
danger of being in reality insane. 

Poor little Rossie had enjoyed much and suffered 
much since the day when we last saw her, waving a 
farewell to her friends from the deck of the steamer 
which bore her away. Her brother had been uniformly 
kind and affectionate to her, but many things had arisen 
to shake her confidence in him, and to make her think it 
possible that he was not the honorable, upright man he 
professed to be. Then, as the year w r ore on, and they 
got farther and farther from home, her letters were 
unanswered, and there began to steal over her a long¬ 
ing for America which she could not conceal, and 
which took all the color from her face and round ness 
from her form, until at last she was really sick with hope 
deferred and an anxiety to know why none of her letters 
were answered. 

At Florence she was very ill of a fever contracted in 
Rome, and from the effects of which she did not recover, 
although she was able at last to go on toward Vienna, 
their ultimate destination. At Salzburg they halted for 
a few days, and there her brother brought to her a 
stranger, whom he introduced as a friend and old ac¬ 
quaintance, Hr. Van Schoisner, to whom he said he 


808 


LA MAI80N BE 8ANTE. 


owed his life, and who had a k.nd of Sanitarium for 
people diseased in body and mind, upon the river Dan¬ 
ube. Van Schoisner, who spoke English very well, was 
exceedingly kind and tender in his manner toward Ros¬ 
sie, whom he questioned so closely, and in such a pecu¬ 
liar way, that she first was annoyed, and then confused 
and bewildered, and finally contradicted herself two or 
three times in her statements with regard to her recent 
illness, and when he asked how she would like to go to 
his beautiful place on the river and stay a few weeks 
while he treated her, she shrank away from him, and 
bursting into tears said she would not like it at all,—that 
she did not need to be treated, as there was nothing the 
matter with her but homesickness, and only America 
could cure that. 

Van Schoisner laughed, and stroked her hair, and 
said he would soon have her all right, and then went to 
her brother, between whom and himself there was a 
long conference, during which both sold themselves, 
body and soul, to the evil one, and were pledged to do 
his work. 

“If she would only abandon that nonsense of hers 
about giving her fortune to that Forrest, as soon as she 
comes of age, and would share it with me, I wouldn’t do 
it, for, by Jove, I’ve a kind of liking for the girl,” Dr. 
Matthewson said, as there came a little prick of con¬ 
science, and a drawing back from the thing he proposed to 
do, which was nothing more or less than burying Rossie 
alive inside a mad-house, where, so long as the price was 
paid, she would be as really dead to the world as if the 
grass were growing over her, and where the chances 
were that she would either die a speedy death, or, with 
her temperament, become a hopeless lunatic. 

Money he must have, and as he believed in neithei 
God nor the devil, he had no scruples as to how he got 
it, only he would a little rather not murder one outright 
to get it. Every argument which he could think of had 
been brought to bear upon Rossie, with a view to induc¬ 
ing here to keep the fortune willed her, but she had 
stood firm as a rock in her decision to make the whole 
over to Everard as soon as she came of age, and so he had 
recourse to the horrid scheme of which we have hinted. 


LA MAISON BE 8ANTE. 


359 


He knew Van Schoisner well, and knew that he was 
the man for any deed, however dark,—provided there 
was money in it, with little chance of detection ; and he 
sent for him to meet them at Salzburg to confer on im¬ 
portant business. So Van Schoisner went and found 
what the business was, and talked to Rossie about her 
head, and brain, and cerebellum , until she lost her wits 
and said she hadn’t any cerebellum , and never had. She 
was homesick, and that was all. This, of course, was 
proof conclusive of a diseased state of mind. A girl 
who hadn’t any cerebellum, and who persisted in throw- 
ingaway hundreds of thousands of dollars, must be insane 
and dealt with accordingly. So the bargain was made, 
and Rossie’s fate was sealed. And then arose the ques¬ 
tion of the friends at home. What should be said to 
them to quiet all suspicion ? 

“ She must be dead, of course,” Van Schoisner said. 
“ Nothing easier than that. A notice in the paper ; a 
letter containing particulars; crape on your hat ; a 
tear in your eye, and the thing is accomplished.” 

“Yes,” returned the doctor, “ but suppose that chap 
who is in love with her takes it into his head to come 
spooning after her grave, and inquires about her death, 
and wants to see the very room, and all that,—and it 
would be like him to do it,—what then?” 

Van Schoisner rubbed his forehead thoughtfully a 
moment, and then said : 

“ That’s the hardest part to manage, but I think I 
can do it, only give me time. I have a niece : h the 
country a few miles from here, very sick with consump¬ 
tion,—in the last stages, and poor, too, with no friends 
but myself. I pay her board where she is, and visit her 
sometimes. She was born in London, her father was an 
Englishman ; so she speaks English perfectly, and might 
be your sister. I have talked of taking her to Haelder- 
Strauchsen, and will do so at once, though the journey 
will shorten her life. But that will not matter, as she 
must die soon. Once at Haelder-Strauchsen she is your 
sister, and your sister is my niece. The attendants 
never ask questions nor talk. Do you compi ^hend ?’* 

Dr. Matthewson thought te did, but left the inattei 


860 


LA MAISON BE SANTE. 


wholly to his. ally, who had, if possible, diank deepei 
from the cup of iniquity than himself. 

As the result of this conversation there w r as brought 
to the hotel a few days later a white-faced, fair-haired 
girl, in whose great blue eyes and about whose mouth 
and nose death was plainly written. They called her 
Myra, and said she was Van Schoisner’s niece, whom 
he was taking to his home for better care than she could 
have in the country. No one attended her. Her uncle 
could do all that was necessary, he said, and he seemed 
very kind to her, and staid by her constantly upon the 
boat when at last they started for home, accompanied 
by Dr. Matthewson and Rossie, who was greatly in¬ 
terested in the sick girl. It was night when they 
reached the landing where they were to stop, and from 
the windows of the close carriage Rossie saw nothing 
of the country through which they passed for a few 
miles, but was conscious at last that they were entering 
spacious grounds, and stopping before a large, square 
building, with two wings on either side. 

The room assigned her was in one of the wings on 
the third floor, as was Myra’s also. It was very prettily 
furnished, and the windows looked out upon the grounds, 
but there was stretched before them a gauzy net-work 
of iron, which Rossie noticed at once, and asked for the 
reason. Then her brother explained to her the real 
character of the house, but said that as they were tran¬ 
sient visitors it would not affect them in the least, and 
all she had to do was to rest and get as well as possible, 
so they might go on to Vienna. 

And Rossie tried to rest and enjoy the beautiful 
place, but the occasional sight of some of the patients 
walking in the distance, the strange sounds, like human 
cries, which reached her in the night when everything 
was still, and, more than all, a great languor and desire 
to sleep which she could not shake off, wore upon her 
so fast that in a few days she was seriously ill again, 
end lost all consciousness of time or what was passing 
around her. How long she remained in this condition 
e.ie never knew; only this, that she awoke one morning 
to And Van Schoisner with her, apparently watching hei 
R3 she slept, and administering some powerful stimulants 


LA MAI AON DE 8ANTE. 


361 


lie was very kind, indeed, and told her Dr. Matthewson 
bad been obliged to go to Vienna on business, which 
might detain him a few days, but he would soon be back, 
and she was to be as happy and quiet as possible till his 
return. Her next question was for the sick girl, who, he 
said, had died a week ago, and then he bade her try to 
sleep again, as perfect rest was what she needed most. 

“And I went to sleep,” Ilossie said, afterward, when 
telling Beatrice of that awful time when she was kept a 
prisoner at Iiaelder-Strauchsen, with no hope of escape. 
“ I went to sleep and slept so heavily and long that it 
must have been days before I awoke, and when I did, 
my head ached so hard, and everything seemed so con¬ 
fused, and I could not understand a word the woman 
said, for she spoke only German, which I never could 
make out. I tried to make her know that I wanted my 
brother, but she shook her head and put her finger to her 
lips, and finally went out and locked the door after her. 
Then I got up and went to the window, and leaned my 
head against the bars, and cried for home, and you, and 
Everard, till I felt so sick and dizzy that I went back to 
bed, and lay there till Van Schoisner came and told me 
nothing had been heard from Dr. Matthewson since he 
left the Sanitarium, two weeks before. 

“ ‘ I certainly expected him to return,’ he said, 4 and 
am afraid some evil has befallen him. I have written tc 
the hotel where he intended to stop, and they have, not 
seen him.’ 

“ He called him Dr. Matthewson all the time, as 
formal-like as if he had not been my brother, and once 
he called me Myra , and when I said he was mistaken, for I 
was Tlossie Hastings, he smiled kind of pityingly, and said : 

“ ‘ Poor little girl, be anything you like to yourself. 
To me you are Myra. Ilossie died just across the hall, 
and is buried in such a pretty spot.’ 

“ I thought he was crazy, and felt afraid of him, but 
Lad no suspicion then of the real state of things. That 
came gradually, as days and weeks went by and I heard 
nothing from my brother, and seldom saw any one but 
the doctor and the attendant, Margotte, who never talked 
with me except by signs, so I had no opportunity to learn 
the language, which I greatly desired to do, in order to 


362 


LA MAI80N BE 8ANTE. 


make myself understood, and convince her that I was not 
Myra, and was not mad, as I knew she believed me to be,. 

“ Oh, it was so horrible that time, and my head got 
so confused, and I used to pray constantly ‘ God keep 
me from going really mad !’ and he did, though I was 
very near it. At first they would not let me have paper 
or ink to write to you with, but I begged so hard on my 
knees, clinging to that man’s feet, that he consented at 
last, and I wrote to you, and Everard, and Lawyer Rus- 
sell, and my brother, too, though I did not know where 
he was, and Margotte took the letters, which I know 
now were never sent, but were burned to ashes, for 
Yulah told me so,—good, kind Yulah, who came to me 
like an angel from Heaven. 

“ Margotte was sick, and Yulah took her place. She 
had been there once as a patient, mad herself, from some 
great wrong done to her by one she loved and trusted. 
Her baby had died there, and been buried in the grounds, 
and she was attached to the place, and after her cure, 
staid from choice, and was nurse and attendant both, 
and the most faithful and vigilant of them all, and the one 
the doctor trusted the most. So he put me in her charge, 
and the moment I saw her sweet, sad face, and looked 
into her eyes, which seemed always ready to run over 
with tears, I loved her, and put my tired head in her 
lap, and cried like a child. 

“ * Q'avez vous, petite Myra she said, and then I 
knew she sooke French, and my heart gave a great 
bound, for I knew I could talk with her a little, and I 
mustered all my knowledge of the language and told her 
I was not Myra at all; I was Rosamond Hastings, from 
America ; shut up, detained there unlawfully, for what 
reason I did not know ; that I had written and written 
home and nobody had answered me, and the doctor said 
my brother, who came with me, was dead, but I did not 
believe it; and a great deal more, to which she listened 
patiently, as one might listen to the meaningless prattle 
of a child. 

“ But when I mentioned brother’s name, she sprang 
to her feet and shaking me off asked fiercely, ‘ votre frere> 
comment s’appelle-t-il?' 1 told her again, ‘ Dr. Matthew- 
son ; Dr, John Matthewson, from America,’ and for a few 


LA MAISON BE SANTE. 


308 


moments she acted as if she were perfectly insane, and 
glaring at me with her terrible eyes, she spit upon me 
and demanded, ‘You are sure you are his sister? You 
are nothing else to him, though that is bad enough ?’ 

“ I made her believe at last, and then she asked m© 
s© many questions that before I knew it I had told he? 
all about the Forrest House, and the will, and Everard, 
and everything, she all the time looking straight at ms 
with her great bright eyes, which seemed to be reading 
me to see if I were telling the truth. 

e< ‘ I see, I see, I understand. Poor child, God sent 
me here to be your friend, and I will !’ she said, when I 
had finished; and then she broke out angrily against my 
brother, whom she called a villain, a murderer, a rascal, 
and said he had done her a terrible wrong, which she had 
sworn to avenge, and she saw a way by which she could 
keep her word. 

“ ‘ I go to America myself, but what your friends 
shall know,’ she said, and to my great delight she spoke 
to me now in English, but whispered very low. ‘ It is 
bettei they not to know I can talk in your tongue, and 
they not suspect; and I must be very strict, watch you 
very much is my order, because you dangerous, you try 
to kill yourself, he say, and I never let you from my 
sight. But I fix ’em. I cheat. I have my revenge 
much. You will see what I do.” 5 

This was in part the story told afterwards to Bea¬ 
trice by Rossie, who did not then know that Yulah Van 
Eisner was the girl who had once pleaded so piteously 
for justice at the hands of Dr. Matthewson, and been by 
him spurned with contempt, which had turned her love 
into bitter hatred. She saw no reason to discredit Ros- 
sie’s story, and understood readily why she had been 
immured in a living tomb, and guessed that to her friends 
at home she was supposed to be dead, and that tne 
knavish brother had the inheritance. She did not, how¬ 
ever, communicate all her suspicions to her charge, as 
she did not wish to wound her unnecessarily, but she 
meant to get her away, and set herself steadily to that 
object. Through her influence writing materials were 
again furnished to Rossie, who, acting upon Yulall’s 
advice, wrote two letters to Everard, one of which went 


TEE ESCAPE. 


into Vou Sohoisner’s hands and was burned as usual, 
while the other was secreted about Yulah’s person and 
found its way to America, but not until some time had 
elapsed, and Yulah had given up her situation to Mar- 
gotte, with the understanding, however, that there was 
always a place for her in the Maison de Sante, either as 
attendant or nurse, when she chose to return. 


CHAPTER XLIX. 

THE ESCAPE. 

HERE weie not as many visitors as usual that 
season in Lintz, and those who did come were 
mostly English or French, who did not spend 
their money as freely as the Americans were 
accustomed to do, so that it was a matter of 
rejoicing to the master of the Rother Krebs when one 
afternoon in October the stage brought from the station 
two passengers whom, with his quick eye, he set down 
as Americans, and bustled out to meet them, deciding 
that they were people who would not stand for a few 
thalers more or less. Beatrice w T as very tired, for they 
had not stopped at ab eince landing in Liverpool, but had 
crossed at once to the Continent, and traveled day and 
night until they reached Lintz, where Yulah was waiting 
for them. She had sought and obtained the situation as 
chambermaid in the hotel, and, like the master, had 
watched impatiently for Americans, though from a very 
different reason. And when her Americans came, she 
knew them as if by instinct, taking Mr. Morton, how¬ 
ever, for Everard, and feeling greatly disappointed when 
she learned that it was a Mr. and Mm Morton, who were 
occupying No. —, the great room in the house where 
princes had dined and slept. Still, something told her 
that Beatrice was the lady she was looking for, and when 
the latter retired to her room after dinner ^be found a 
sad -faced woman pretending to be busy v r i‘* scmrtk.mg 








THE ESCAPE. 


363 


about the washstand, though everyth mg seemed in its 
place. Suddenly she faced about, and the eyes of tbe 
two women met and looked into each other with an 
eager, questioning gaze. 

“You are Yulah,” Beatrice said, in German, and tbs 
girl answered with a cry of joy, “Yes, and yea are tbs 
Lady Beatrice she talks so much about, and he is not 
Mr. Everard.” 

“No, my husband, Mr. Morton. We were married 
just before we sailed. Where is she ? When did you 
see her last, and how soon can we have hei ? Will 
they let her pr without anv trouble, and what are we 
to do ?” 

Beatrice as^ed her questions so rapidly as to confuse 
and bewilder the girl, who shook her head, and answered 
in English : 

“ You ask so many, I don’t know quite all. But I 
go to-morrow and tell her, and see how we can do best. 
He will never let her go, there is too much money in her. 
That doctor pay big sums. We must take her, that’s all, 
and be so careful. You stay here till I come or send 
some word : not to-morrow, but next day, perhaps. I 
not talk more now. I be at my duties.” 

She left the room then, and Beatrice saw no more 
of her until the day but one following, when about dark 
she came into the room, flushed and excited, and evi¬ 
dently a little shaken out of her usual quiet, composed 
manner. She had been to Haelder-Strauchsen ; she had 
seen Rossie, but had not told her of her friends’arrival. 

“I did not dare,” she said, “she’s so weak and sick, 
no heart, no courage, but stands by the window all the 
day, looking to the west, and whispering, sometimes, 
‘Oh, Everard, why do you not come, and I waiting so 
long?’ But we’ll get her sure. God fixed it for us, and 
he,—the doctor, I mean,—is awful with something they 
think is cholera, and all is fright and confusion, for the 
nurses is afraid and leaving, and Miss Rossie’s attendant 
is glad to have me take her place. So I am going back 
to-morrow, and you must go with me and stay in the 
town a mile away, until I send or bring you word what 
you do next. Ym are not afraid of cholera? Americans 
mostly is.” 


THE ESCAPE. 


Bee was mortally afraid of it, but she would have 
faced death itself for the sake of recovering Rossie, and 
it was arranged that they should take the boat the next 
day for the little town near the Matson de Sante , where 
Y ulah told them there was a comfortable inn, where they 
could remain in quiet as long as they liked. Travelers, 
especially Americans, often stopped there, she said, and 
their being there would awaken no suspicion. Accord 
ingly, the next afternoon found them occupants of a 
pleasant chamber in the inn, with an outlook to the river 
and another to the road which led out to La Maison de 
Sante . Yulah had come with them on the boat as second- 
class passenger, and had held no communication what¬ 
ever with them, lest suspicion might in some way be 
aroused ; and immediately after landing had taken the 
road to the Sanitarium, while Beatrice tried in vain to 
keep composed and quiet, and await the turn of events. 
That she should actually see Rossie that night she could 
not realize, and when about dark a note was brought her 
by a little boy, her limbs trembled so violently, and she 
felt so faint and giddy, as to be scarcely able to read it. 

The note was as follows : 

“Have a big carriage at the south gate, one little 
ways off, at eleven to-night. Get Michel Fahen,—he my 
friend ; this his little boy ; he keep the carriages.” 

That seemed to bring Rossie very near, and Bee’s 
face was white as ashes as she questioned the boy, who 
said Michael Fahen was his father, and rented carriages 
to people, and if she liked he would bring him to the 
room. Michel was a powerfully-built man, who locked 
as if he could keep a whole army at bay by the sheer 
strength of his fists, and when told what was wanted of 
him, or rather that he was to wait with them near the 
south gate of the Maison de Sante at eleven that night, 
shot at them a keen, quick glance of intelligence and 
comprehension which made Beatrice sick with fear, lest, 
after all, they should fail. But his words and manner 
were reassuring. He could guess what they wanted, and 
he was the man to do it. He did not believe in the 
place ; there were many there who ought to be out. 
Yes, he’d help her ; he’d drive them to Vienna, if neoes- 


THE ESCAPE. 


Eary ; he knew the south gate, in the rear of the house, 
opening on a lonesome and unfrequented road. 

“ And I shall succeed,” he said. “ Michel Fahen 
never fails; arms strong, horses fleet, and Yulah cunning 
as the very-.” 

His confidence in himself inspired them with confi¬ 
dence in him, and at the time appointed they were in his 
carriage, and entering the narrow road which lay to the 
rear of the Maison de Sante , and more than a quarter of 
a mile distant. That portion of the grounds was filled 
with trees and shrubbery, and was not often used either 
for convenience or pleasure by the inmates of the house, 
the chimneys of which were by daylight just perceptible 
through the tall, thick trees. 

Bee could see nothing in the darkness except the 
occasional glimmer of a light moving from point to point, 
as she sat, half-fainting with nervous fear and impatience, 
while the clock in the tower told first the hour of eleven, 
and then the quarter, and then the half, and then,— 
surely there was a footstep in the direction of the gate, 
and a voice she recognized as Yulah’s called softly, 
“Michel, Michel, are you there ? Help me lift her ; she 
is dead, or fainted, and I’ve brought her all the way.” 

“ Can one of you hold my horses ?” Michel asked, and 
in an instant Beatrice was at their heads, patting, and 
caressing, and talking to them in the language all brutes 
recognize, whether in English or German, while Mr. 
Morton and Michel were at the gate, which was high 
and locked, and over which they lifted bodily a figure 
which lay perfectly motionless in the arms of Michel, 
who bore it to the carriage, and laid it down gently, but 
not until Beatrice, with a woman’s forethought, had made 
sure who it was. 

She had risked too much to be disappointed now, and 
bidding Michel wait a moment, she struck a match with 
which she had prepared herself, and holding it close to 
the inanimate form in his arms, saw the face she knew, 
but so white, and worn, and still, with the long, curling 
lashes resting on the pallid cheeks, where tears and suf¬ 
fering had left their traces in dark, purplish rings, that 
with a gasping cry she said: “ Oh, Theo, it’s Rossie, 
but dead; I am sure she is dead.” 



868 


THE ESCAPE. 


“ Now, Michel, drive for your life !” Yulah exclaimed, 
as she sprang to the box beside him, after having seen 
Kossie carefully lifted into the carriage, where she lay 
supported mostly by Mr. Morton, though her head was 
in Beatrice’s lap, and Beatrice’s hands were busy unfas¬ 
tening the water-proof hood, and her tears were flowing 
like rain on the face which, even in the darkness, looked 
ghostly white and corpse-like. 

The manner of escape had been as follows : The doc¬ 
tor had died that afternoon, and as his disease had un¬ 
doubtedly been cholera in its most malignant form, 
great consternation had prevailed in the building among 
the employees, some of whom had left, and most of 
whom kept as far as possible from the wing where he 
had died, and where Rossie’s room was situated. Yulah 
alone was fearless, and came and went as usual, in her 
capacity of attendant in place of Margotte, who had fled 
to the town. To prevent contagion, it was thought best 
to bury the body at midnight, with as little ceremony as 
possible, and thus everything was in confusion, of which 
Yulah took advantage. She was very popular in the 
house, and when she asked permission to go out for the 
evening and take one of the nurses with her, it was readily 
granted her, with the injunction that she should wait un¬ 
til her patient was asleep, or at least quiet for the night. 
To this she readily assented, saying that she would lock 
her in the room so as to prevent the possibility of her 
venturing into the hall while the body wa3 being re¬ 
moved. This arranged, her next business was to prepare 
Rossie, who had recently sunk into a state of despond¬ 
ency amounting almost to insanity inself, and who spent 
most of her time sitting or standing by the window, with 
her face toward the setting sun, and such a hopeless, 
weary expression upon it as was very touching to see. 
She was standing thus, although it was already too dark 
to see more than the lights in the distant town, when 
Yulah came hurriedly in, and, bolting the door, went up 
to her and said, in broken English : 

“ Cheer up, petite, joy and glad at last. They are 
come ; they here for you !” 

“Not Everard ! Oh, has he come?” and a low cry 
broke from Rossie’s quivering lips. 


THE ESCAPE. 


869 


But Yulah stifled it at once by putting Ker hand 
over her mouth, and saying : 

“Careful, much careful. They must not hear. I fix 
it for you, and you be still and listen.” 

Very rapidly she told her that Mrs. Morton and her 
husband, whom she called anything but Morton, were at 
the inn waiting for them, and detailed her plan of escape, 
to which Rossie listened in a kind of apathetic way, 
which showed that she did not clearly comprehend what 
was meant, or who was waiting for her. Certainly she 
never thought of Beatrice, but she understood that 
all she had to do was to obey orders, and taking the seat 
which Yulah bade her take, she sat as immovable as a 
stone, with her great, black eyes following every move¬ 
ment of her nurse, who, alarmed at last at their expres¬ 
sion and the rigid attitude of the figure, which scarcely 
seemed to breathe, tried to rouse her to something like 
sense and feeling, but all in vain. 

One idea and one alone had possession of Rossie. If 
she would escape she must be still , and she sometimes 
held her breath lest she should be heard by the men, 
who, at the far end of the long hall, were passing in and 
out of the room where the dead body lay. No one came 
near No. —, or paid any attention when, about half-past 
ten, two female figures emerged from the door,—one 
wrapped in a blue waterproof, with the hood drawn 
closely over the face; the other unmistakably Yulah, 
who, locking the door behind her and putting the key in 
her pocket, hurried with her companion down the two 
long flights of stairs, and through a back, winding piazza, 
to the rear of the house, where the door she had un¬ 
fastened an hour before stood partly open, and through 
which she went, dragging her companion after her. It 
was literally dragging until the safety of the thick 
shrubbery was reached, when Rossie gave out and 
sank down at Yulah’s feet unconscious, and fainted en 
tirely away. To add to Yulah’s alarm, there was a 
sound of footsteps near. Somebody was in the 
wood besides herself, and she waited breathlessly until 
the sound ceased in the distance, as the person or per¬ 
sons, for there seemed to be two, hurried on. Then, 
taking Rossie in her arms, she made what progress she 


370 


GOING HOME. 


could, gropiug through the dark and underbrush, as she 
dared not keep to the path. But the gate was reached 
at last, and with Michel’s strong hands to help, Rossie 
was liften over it and into the carriage, which was driven 
rapidly in the direction of the nearest railway station. 


CHAPTER L. 


GOING HOME. 



HREE weeks after the events recorded in the 
last chapter, the City of Berlin came slowly 
up the New York harbor, and of all the eager, 
expectant faces in the crowd of people upon 
the deck, none was happier or more eager 
than that of Beatrice, who, now that her work was accom¬ 
plished, and Rossie safe in her possession, had given her¬ 
self up to the pleasures of her honeymoon, and been the 
merriest, happiest, most loving of brides, during all the 
voyage, except when she looked at the white-faced girl 
who lay in her berth so quietly, or sat so still in her 
chair on deck, looking out upon the sea with eyes which 
did not seem to see anything or take note of what was 
passing. 

The flight from Haelder-Strauchsen to the nearest 
railroad had been accomplished in safety, and there they 
waited a few hours for the arrival of the train, which 
was to take them away from the scene of so much 
danger. And here it, was that Beatrice suggested to 
Yulah that she go with them to America, either as Ros- 
sie’s maid or her own. 

“ I mean to do it all the time, then I see what come 
to he,—-the villain,—and I take much care my poor little 
one, who so tired and scared in her head, but who come 
right sure when the boy Everard is near,” Yulah said, as 
she stroked the thin, hot hands, folded so helplessly 
across Rossie’s breast. 

Very rapidly she communicated her intention to Michel, 






GOING HOME. 


371 


telling bitn at the same time the full particulars of Rossie’s 
incarceration in the Maison de Sante , and bidding him re* 
peat it in Hoelder-Strauchsen, if there was a great stir on 
account of the abduction. Mr. Morton had paid his bills 
at the inn, and said that he should not return, as he was 
going to a point higher up the river, so no suspicions 
could be awakened there of anything wrong until the 
alarm was given at the house. And this, in all human 
probability, would not be till late the next morning, 
when, as Yulah failed to appear, inquiries might be 
made, and the door of No. — be forced open, and by 
that time the fugitives would be miles and miles away, 
speeding on toward the west, and Michel Fahen would 
be smoking his pipe very unconcernedly at the door of 
his kitchen, knowing nothing whatever of any escaped 
lunatic, or of Yulah Van Eisner’s whereabouts; know¬ 
ing nothing, except that he carried some English-talking 
people to a railroad station, and was rewarded for it by 
many, many thalers. So, of whatever commotion or ex* 
citement there was, Mr. and Mrs. Morton were ignorant, 
and kept rapidly on their way until the continent was 
crossed, and they felt safe in the seclusion of crowded 
London. Here they rested in lodgings a few days, and 
called the best medical advice for Rossie, who, since re¬ 
covering from the dead faint in which she had been more 
than an hour, had been just on the border land, where 
her reason seemed hesitating whether to go or stay. 
When it first came to her in the carriage who it was bend¬ 
ing so lovingly over her, she had burst into a wild fit of 
weeping, which frightened them more than the faint bad 
done. Her first words, when she did speak, were : 

“ Everard, where are you ? hold my hand in yours 
and I shall not be afraid.” 

At a sign from his wife, Mr. Morton took Rossie’s 
hand in his and held it, while Bee whispered to her, 
“ Don’t talk now, darling. It is all right. We are 
going home.” 

How much Rossie realized of that rapid journey, 
which was continued day and night, they could not guess, 
for she never spoke again or showed any sign that she 
understood what was passing around her, except to 
answer their questions in monosyllables and smile so 


873 


GOING HOME. 


sweetly Mid trustfully in their faces when they told her, 
as they often did, that she was safe, until London was 
reached, and they laid her in the clean, sweet bed in the 
large, airy room in quiet Kensington, where they had 
taken lodgings. 

For several days they staid in London, and then took 
passage for home in the City of Berlin, where everything 
was done to make the voyage comfortable and easy for 
Itossie, who talked but little, and who, when she did 
speak, always asked, “ How long before I shall see 
Everard?” 

It was only the Maison de Sante and the incidents 
connected with it which had any power to excite or even 
interest her. With regard to everything else, except 
Everard, she was silent and indifferent, asking no ques¬ 
tions, and even taking Beatrice’s marriage as a matter of 
course, and never offering a comment upon it. But 
when at last America was in sight and they were coming 
up the harbor, she roused from her apathy and went up 
on deck with the others, and sat in her chair, with a 
bright flush on her cheeks and a sparkle in her eyes which 
made them as bright as stars. She was looking for 
Everard, and trying to make him out in the group of 
men waiting on the distant wharf for the boat. 

“ I must tell her,” Bee thought; and sitting down be¬ 
side her, she said : “ Darling, I know you expect Ever¬ 
ard to meet you, but he is not here. He did not even 
know we were going for you, and we would not tell him 
for fear we might fail, and then he would feel worse 
than ever. But he is in Rothsay, and will be so glad to 
get his dear little girl once more. Don’t cry,” she 
added, as the great tears gathered in Rossie’s eyes and 
rolled down her cheeks. “We meant it for the best, and 
you shall see him soon, very soon. We will go on 
to-night, if you think you can bear it. Are you strong 
enough ?” 

“ Yes, go on,—quick,—fast, just as we came through 
Europe. X want to see Everard,” Rossie whispered, and 
so they went on that night in the express which left for 
Pittsburg, from which city a telegram was forwarded to 
Lawyer Russell, to the effect; that Mr. and Mrs. Morton 
would be in Rothsay on the late train. 


BREAKING TEE NEWS AT THE FORREST HOUSE 373 


CHAPTER LI. 

BREAKING THE NEWS AT THE FORREST nOCJSIL 

WILD storm was sweeping over Southern 
Ohio that November night, and nowhere w T as 
it wilder or more violent than in RotLsay, 
where the rain fell in torrents, and ere it 
reached the ground was taken up by the 
wind and driven in blinding sheets through the deserted 
streets. But wild as the storm was in the village, it 
seemed wilder still in the vicinity of the Forrest House, 
which fairly shook on its solid foundations with the 
force of the tempest. Tree after tree was blown down, 
shrubs were uprooted, and the fanciful summer-house 
which the doctor had erected on the spot where Rossie 
used to tend and water her geraniums and fuchsias, went 
crashing down, a heap of ruins, while within, in the most 
costly and elegant chamber, a fiercer storm was raging 
between a soul trying to free itself from its prison walls 
of clay and the body which struggled so hard to re¬ 
tain it. 

Josephine had not improved, as at one time it was 
thought she might. The secret which she held and the 
loss of the letter had worn upon her. terribly, and the 
constant dread of some impending evil had produced a 
kind of brain fever, and for days her life had been in 
imminent danger, and the doctor had staid by her con¬ 
stantly, marveling at the strangeness of her talk, and 
wondering sometimes if it were possible that she could 
have become possessed of the secret which at times filled 
even him with horror and a haunting fear of what might 
come upon him should his guilt be known. . But Jose¬ 
phine could have no knowledge of his crime. Van 
Schoisner was safe as the grave so long as the money was 
paid, as it would continue to be, for he had set aside a 
certain amount, the interest of which went regularly to 
Haelder-Strauchsen, and would go so long as Rossie lived. 
This, in all human probability, would not be long, for 






374 


BREAKING TEE NEWS 


Von Schoisner wrote of her failing health, and told how 
bewildered she was growing in her mind. Should she be¬ 
come hopelessly insane, he would be almost as safe as if 
she were dead, the doctor thought, and he always waited 
with fierce impatience for news from Austria, when he 
knew that it was due. Von Schoisner’s last letter had 
reported her as very weak, with growing symptoms of 
imbecility, and though the villainous man did feel a 
pang of remorse when he remembered the sunny-faced 
girl who had so loved and trusted him, he knew he had 
gone too far to think of retracing his steps. There was 
nothing left but to go on, and as his life at the Forrest 
House had not proved a success he had made up his 
mind to sell it and go to Europe to live permanently as 
soon as Josephine was better. He could hide himself 
there from justice, should it attempt to overtake him, 
and he waited anxiously for any signs of amendment in 
his wife. 

She did seem better that stormy night, when even he 
quailed a little and felt nervous as he listened to the 
roaring wind, which, he fancied, had in it the sound of 
human sobbing. She had slept for more than an hour, 
and when she awoke she was quiet, and more rational 
than she had been for days. But there was a look of 
death about her mouth and nose, and her eyes were un- 
naturally bright as they fixed themselves on Agnes, who 
sat watching her. 

The doctor had taken advantage of her sleep to steal 
away for a while, and in the dining-room was trying to 
stifle his conscience with the fumes of tobacco and the 
brandy, of which he drank largely and often. Thus 
Agnes was left alone with her sister, whose first ques¬ 
tion, asked in a whisper, was : 

“ Where is Ae,—the doctor, I mean ?” 

“ Gone to rest,” was the reply, and Josephine con¬ 
tinued : 

“ Yes, let him rest while he can. It will soon be over, 
and then a dungeon for him , and darkness, and blank¬ 
ness, and utter forgetfulness for me ; Aggie, that’s all a 
fable about a hereafter,—a rag of mythology which 
recent science has torn in shreds. We do not go some¬ 
where when we die; we perish like the brutes.” 


AT FEE FORREST ROUSE. 


375 


“ Oh, no, no ! God forbid !” and falling on her knees, 
with her hands clasped together, Agnes murmured words 
of prayer for the soul so deluded and deceived. 

“ Hush, Agnes, '* Josephine said, almost fiercely. 
“There’s more important work on hand just now than 
praying for one who does not want your prayers, for 
even if there be a hereafter, it’s now too late for me, and 
I care no more for it than a stone. I cannot feel, and 
it’s no use to try. If there is a hell, which I don’t be¬ 
lieve, I shall go there; if there is not, then I am all right, 
and the sooner I am like the clods the better; but I must 
do one good act. Agnes, do you think Everard would 
come here to-night if he knew I was dying,—for I am ; 
I feel it, and I must tell him something, which will per¬ 
haps make him think more kindly of me than he does 
now. Can you manage it for me ?” 

“No, no,” Agnes exclaimed. “He would not come 
here to-night of all others, because-” 

She checked herself suddenly, and then added : 

“ Listen to the rain and the wind ; did you ever hear 
such a storm ?” 

“Yes, I hear,” Josephine replied, excitedly. “It 
was sent for me, and I am going out on its wings, but it 
seems dreary to go in such a way. Oh, Aggie, if there 
should be a hereafter,—but there is not. We all do 
sleep,—sleep. But Everard, Everard,—I must see him, 
or maybe you would tell him when I am dead. Lock 
the door, Aggie; then come close to me and swear,— 

swear that you will tell him,—that Rossie- Oh, 

Agnes, I am so afraid of him,—the doctor, that I dare 
not say it !” and on the white face there was a look of 
terror such as Agnes had never seen before. 

There could be no doubt in her mind as to what her 
sister meant, and regardless of consequences, she bent 
down and whispered: 

“I know,—I understand. Rossie is not dead. She 
is alive and coming home.” 

“ How do you know ? Have you seen the letter r 
Josephine almost shrieked, and Agnes replied: 

“ Yes, I found it under the carpet long ago, just after 
I came here, but I did not suppose that yon had ever 
seen it.” 



8? BREAKING THE NEWS AT THE FORREST HOUSE, 

“I bad, I did; I put it there,” Josephine said, gasp¬ 
ing out the story of her having taken it from the office, 
and the hiding it afterward. “And you found it 7 
Where is it now ?” she asked, and Agnes replied : 

“ I gave it to Miss Belknap, and she-” 

Agnes did not finish, for Josephine started upright 
in bed, exclaiming: 

“I see; I know. She went suddenly to Europe,—to 
find Rossie ; tell me the truth. Has she found her, and 
is she coming home, and what will it be for him ?” 

Agnes knew that by him Dr. Matthewson was meant, 
and she replied unhesitatingly: 

“State prison for him and poverty for you.” 

“Yes, I know. Poverty, disgrace, State prison for 
life, and how soon ? Tell me how soon ? lie might 
have time to fly, for I,—I,—he is not good, but I’d rather 
he did not go to prison. He is my husband, you know. 
How soon ? Tell me truly.” 

“ To-night,—now,—the train is due and overdue. 1 
do not believe he can get away. I think he is watched. 
Lawyer Russell knows,—not Everard yet; and Mr. and 
Mrs. Morton are coming to night with Rossie,” Agnes 
said, rapidly ; and the next moment a wild shriek rang 
through the house, which Dr. Matthewson heard above 
the storm, and he came reeling up the stairs from his 
brandy and cigars, but was sobered at once when he 
found his wife in the most horrible fit he had ever wit¬ 
nessed. 

When it was over, and she became conscious again, 
it was pitiable to see how hard she tried to speak and 
warn him of his danger, but could not, for the power of 
utterance was gone, and she only gave forth inarticulate 
sounds which he could not comprehend anjr more than 
he could understand what had affected her so strangely. 
It was in vain that he appealed to Agnes, who was whitei 
if possible than her sister, and trembling from head to 
foot. She was sworn to secrecy,—and if she had inad¬ 
vertently said to Josephine things which she ought not, 
she must keep silence before the doctor, and bear the 
glance of the eyes which looked so imploringly at her, 
and seemed about to leap from their sockets when she 
ebook her head in token that she could not tell. There 



BREAKING THE NEWS TO EVE HAUL. 8T* 


were flecks of blood and foam about the pallid lips, and 
drops of sweat upon the face and hands, the latter of 
which beat the air hopelessly as the dying woman tried 
to speak. At last, when they had no more power to 
move, they dropped helplessly upon the bed, and the 
white, haggard face grew whiter and more haggard as she 
lay with ears strained to catch the sound for which she 
listened so intently, and which came at last in a shrill, 
prolonged whistle, which was distinctly heard in the 
pauses of the abating storm, as the train so long delayed 
swept through the town. Then, summoning all her re¬ 
maining strength for one last great effort, Josephine 
raised her arm in the air, and motioning to the door, 
said to her husband in a voice which was to sound in his 
ears through many years to come : 

“ Doomed,—doomed,—fl-” 

She could not finish and say “ fly,” as she wished to 
do, for the word died away in a low, gurgling moan ; 
the white foam poured again from lips and nose, and 
when the convulsions ceased and the distorted features 
resumed their natural look, the soul had gone to meet its 
God. 


CHAPTER LII. 

BREAKING THE NEWS TO EVERARD. 

was an hour behind the usual time when the 
train from the north stopped for a moment 
at Rothsay, and four people, or rather three, 
stepped out into the storm, and hurried to 
the shelter of the carriage waiting for them. 
The fourth, whose face was carefully hidden from sight, 
was carried in the strong arms of Yulah, and held like 
a child until Beatrice’s house was reached, where it was 
taken at once to the room which Rossie used to occupy, 
when visiting at Elm Park. Rossie w*as very tired and 
very weak, both in body and mind, but had not seemed 
at all excited during the journey from New YArk unt 1 







378 BREAKING THE NL VS TO EVER ARB. 


Rothsay was reached, and she was in the carriage riding 
along the old familiar road she had once thought she 
should never see again. Then she roused from her 
apathy, and sitting upright looked eagerly out through 
the driving rain toward the Forrest House, which lay to 
their right, and seemed to blaze with lights, as the startled 
servants moved rapidly from room to room,—for it was 
just then that the soul had taken wing and was on its 
flight to the world untried. 

“ Look, look !” she said, “ so many lights in the old 
home, as if to welcome me back. Is Everard there wait¬ 
ing for me ?” 

“No, Rossie,” Beatrice said. “We are not going 
there to-night. I thought it best to bring you home 
with me until you have seen Everard.” 

There was a little sigh of disappointment, and then 
Rossie laid her head on Yulah’s arm, and did not speak 
again until she was on the soft bed in the blue room at 
Elm Park, where, when Bee asked her how she felt, she 
whispered : “ So happy and glad, because I shall see 
him in the morning; send for him very early.” 

And w 7 hen the morning came a message was dis¬ 
patched to Everard to the effect that Mr. and Mrs. 
Morton had returned and wished to see him immediately. 
But another message had found its way to the office 
before this one, for knots of crape were streaming in the 
November wind from every door-knob at the Forrest 
House, and the village bell was tolling in token that 
some soul had gone to the God who gave it. 

In his office Everard sat listening to the bell, every 
stroke of which thrilled him with a sensation of some¬ 
thing like dread, as if that knell of death were in some 
way connected with himself. Who was it dead that day 
that the bell should clamor so long, and would it never 
strike the age, he asked himself, just as the door opened 
and Lawyer Russell came in, flurried and excited, and 
red and white by turns as he shook the rain-drops from 
his overcoat, for the storm, though greatly abated, was 
not over yet. 

“ Who is dead? Do you know ?” Everard asked, and 
Mr. Russell replied : 

“ Yes, Ned ; it will be a great shock to you,—an in- 


BREAKING THE NEWS TO EVERARB\ 379 


fernal shock,—though of course you were all ^ver any 
hankering after her ; but it’s that Matthewson woman. 
She died last night, and there’s about forty yards of crape 
flying from the doors up there, and the doctor, they say, is 
actually taking on to kill, and blubbering like a calf; 
but we’ll fix him. You’ll see ; he’s watched ; there’s a 

po-oh, Lord ! what have I said, or come near 

saying ?” 

And in his disgust at himself for having nearly let 
out the secret before the time, the lawyer retreated into 
the adjoining room, leaving Everard alone to meet what 
had been a terrible shock to him, for though he had 
heard at different times from Agnes of Josephine’s ill¬ 
ness, he had never believed her dangerous ; and now she 
was dead ; the woman he once fancied that he loved. 
There were great drops of sweat about his mouth and 
under his hair, and his lips quivered nervously while, 
human as he was, there came over him with a rush the 
thought that now indeed he was free in a way which even 
Rossie would have recognized had she been alive. But 
Rossie, too, was dead ; his freedom had come too late. 

“ Everybody is dead,” he whispered, sadly, while 
hot tears sprang to his eyes and rolled down his cheeks,— 
tears, not for the woman at the Forrest House, for whom 
the bell kept steadily tolling, but for the dear little girl 
dead, as he believed, so far away, but who, in reality, 
was so very near, and even then asking when he would 
come. 

“ Soon, darling, soon,” Beatrice said, for she had sent 
a note to Everard, and the messenger was at his office 
door and in the room before Everard was aware of his 
presence. 

“ Mrs. Morton at home !” he exclaimed, as he took 
the note from the servant’s hand. 

“Deae Everard,” Beatrice wrote, “we came home 
last night on the late train, and I am so anxious to see 
you, and have so much to tell. Don’t delay a minute, 
but come at once. Yours, Bee.” 

She had something to tell him of Rossie, of course, and 
in an instant he was in the street, speeding along toward 



030 BREAKING TEE NEWS TO EVERARD: 


Elm Park, and glancing but once in the direction of the 
Forrest House, where every blind was closed, and where, 
through the leafless trees, he could see the flapping of the 
yards of crape which Lawyer Russell had said were 
streaming from the doors. For an instant a cold skud 
der went over him as if he had seen a corpse, but that 
soon passed away, and when Elm Park was reached he 
was in such a fever of excitement that the sweat-drops 
stood like rain upon his face, which, nevertheless, was 
very pale, as he greeted Beatrice, and asked : 

“Did you hear anything of her? Did you find her 
grave, or see any one who was with her at the last ?” 

Beatrice had planned everything thus far with great 
coolness and nerve. She had kept Rossie quiet, and 
made her very sweet and attractive in one of her own 
dainty, white wrappers, and arranged her beautiful hair, 
which had been kept short at the Maison de Sante, but 
which was now growing in soft, curling rings, giving to 
her small, white face a singularly young expression, so 
that she might easily have passed for a child of fourteen 
as she reclined upon the pillows, a smile upon her lips, 
and an eager, expectant look in her large, bright eyes, 
turning constantly to the door at every sound which met 
her ear. At last she heard the well-remembered voice in 
the hall below and the step upon the stairs, for Bee had 
after all lost her self-control, and in answer to Everard’s 
rapid questions, had said: “We did hear news of Rossie, 
and, oh, Everard, don’t let anything astonish or startle 
you, but go up stairs to the blue room, Rossie’s old room, 
you know.” 

He did not wait to hear more, but darted up the stairs, 
expecting, not to find his darling there alive, but dead, 
perhaps, and thus brought back to him, for Bee waa 
capable of anything; so lie sped on his way, and entered 
the room where the fire burned so brightly in the grate, 
and flowers were everywhere, w T hile through the window 
came a sudden gleam of sun-light, which fell din ctly on 
the couch where lay, not a dead, but a living Rossie, 
with a halo of gladness on her face, and in her beautiful 
eyes, which met him as he came so swiftly into the room, 
pausing suddenly with a cry, half of terror, half cf joy, 
as he saw the little girl among the pillows raise herself 


BREAKING TEE NEWS TO EVER AND. 88t 


upright and stretch her arms towards him, while she 
called so clearly and sweetly : “ Oh, Everard, I am home 
again, and you may kiss me once.” 

There was a sudden movement of his hand to his 
head as if the blow had struck him there, and then he 
staggered rather than walked toward the white-robed 
figure, which sprang into his arms and nestled there 
like a frightened bird which has been torn from its nest 
and suddenly finds itself safe in its shelter again. For 
an instant Everard recoiled from the embrace as if it 
were a phantom he held, but only for an instant, for 
there was nothing phantom-like in the warm flesh and 
blood trembling in his arms ; nothing corpse-like in the 
soft hands caressing his face, or in the eyes meeting his 
so fondly. It was Rossie herself come back to him from 
the grave where he had thought her buried, and the shock 
was at first so overpowering that he could not utter a 
word; he could only look at her with wildly staring eyes, 
and face which quivered all over with strong emotions, 
while his heart beat so loudly that every throb was audi¬ 
ble to himself and Rossie, who, as he did not speak, 
lifted her head from his shoulder and said, “ What is it, 
Everard ? Are you not glad to have me home again?” 

That broke the spell, and brought a shower of kisses 
upon her face and lips, while he murmured words of 
fondness and love, and poured forth question after ques¬ 
tion, until Rossie grew bewildered and confused, and 
whispered faintly: I don’t know; I don’t understand; 
I am very tired; ask Beatrice, she knows; she did it; let 
me lie down again.” 

He saw how pale and weary she looked, and placed 
her among the pillows, but held her hands in his, while 
he turned to Beatrice, who had been standing just out¬ 
side the door, and who now came forward. 

“Kot here; Rossie is too tired. She cannot bear it,” 
she said, as he asked her what it meant, and where she 
had found his darling. 

Then, drawing him into the adjoining room, she told 
him very rapidly all the steps which had led to Ros- 
sie’s release from* the mad-house, which had been intended 
as her living tomb. And as he listened to the story, 

Everard grew more and more enraged, until he seemed 


382 BREAKING THE NEWS TO EVERARD. 


like some wild animal roused to the highest pitch of 
fury ; and seizing his hat, was about rushing from the 
room, when Beatrice detained him ; and, locking the 
door to prevent his egress, said to him : “ I know what 
is in your mind. You wish to arrest the doctor at once, 
but there is no haste at present. Everything has been 
attended to for you. Ever since Lawyer Russell heard 
from me that Rossie was alive, the Forrest House has 
been under close espionage, and escape for the doctor 
made impossible. Last night, in all that storm, officers 
were on guard, so that he could not get away if he had 
received a hint of what has been done.” 

“ Yes, I know ; but now,—now,—why not seize him 
now ? Why wait any longer, when I long to tear him 
limb from limb ?” Everard exclaimed, gnashing his teeth 
in his rage, and seeming to Beatrice like a tiger doing 
battle for its young. 

“ Because,” she answered, and she spoke softly now, 
“ we must hold his sorrow sacred. We must let him bury 
his dead. Surely you know that Josephine died last 
night ?” 

“Yes, yes, but I’d forgotten it in my excitement,” he 
gasped, and his face was whiter, if possible, than before 
“You are right; we must not molest him now, but have 
a double watch,—yes, treble, if necessary. He must not 
escape.” 

There was terrible vengeance in Everard’s flashing 
eyes as he paced up and down the room. Dr. Matthew- 
son, though he were ten times Rossie’s brother, had 
nothing to hope from him ; but for the sake of the dead 
woman lying in such state at the Forrest House, he must 
keep quiet and bide his time. So, after another inter¬ 
view with Rossie, whose weak state he began to under¬ 
stand more plainly, he left her, and schooled himself to 
go quietly back to his office and transact his business a€ 
if he were not treading the borders of a mine which 
would explode when he bade it do so. At his request, 
the number of officers was doubled, and every possible 
precaution taken lest the victim should escape, which he 
did not seem likely to do, for he made a great show of 
his grief, and sat all day by the side of his dead wife, 
seeing no one but Agnes and those who had the funeral 


THE ARREST. 


»n charge. Thus, he did not even know of Beatrice^ 
sudden return, which took the people so by surprise, and 
was the theme of wonder and comment second only to 
the grand funeral for which such great preparations were 
making, and which was to take place the third day after 
the death. 


CHAPTER LIIL 
THE ARREST. 

Elm Park the utyiost secrecy was maintained 
with regard to Rossie, whose presence in the 
house was wholly unsuspected by any one 
except the few necessarily in the secret. The 
servants knew, of course, hut they were 
trusty and silent as the grave, and almost as eager for 
the denouement as Yulah, herself, who had personal 
wrongs to he avenged, but who seldom spoke to any one 
lest she should betray what must be kept. Two or three 
times, after dark, she had stolen up to the Forrest House, 
which she examined minutely, while she shook her fist 
and muttered in execration of the man who, she heard, 
sat constantly by his wife, with his face buried in his 
hands, as if he really mourned for the woman whom he 
knew so much better than any one else. And to a cer¬ 
tain extent his grief was genuine. Her beauty had daz¬ 
zled and pleased him, and something in her selfish, 
treacherous nature had so answered to his own, that in 
a way she was necessary to him, and when she went 
from him so suddenly, he experienced a shock and sense 
of loss which struck him down as he had never before 
been stricken, 

Agnes wished to have her sister taken to Holburton 
and buried by her mother. But Holburton was t oo dem¬ 
ocratic a town, and Roxie Fleming’s hones far too ple¬ 
beian for his wife to lie beside, and so he bought a vacant 
lot in Rothsay, and gave order# that no expense should 






m 


THE ARREST. 


be spared to make the funeral worth}" of his money and 
position as the richest man in the county. 

And now, at the close of the third day, the grand 
funeral was over,—and grand it certainly was, if a costly 
coffin, a profusion of flowers, twenty carriages, and a 
multitude of lookers-on, could make it so ; but how much 
real grief there was, aside from what Agnes felt, was a 
-natter of speculation to the people, who went in crowds 
i-0 the Forrest House, which was filled from kitchen to 
parlor. And the doctor knew they were there, and felt 
a thrill of gratification at the honor paid him, though 
he sat with his head bent down, and never once looked 
up or seemed to notice any one. Even had he glanced 
about him at the sea of heads filling anterooms and 
halls, he would not have remarked the men, who, with¬ 
out any apparent intention, were always in the fore¬ 
ground, just where they could command a view of the 
chief mourner in the imposing procession which moved 
slowly to the cemetery, where all that was mortal of 
Josephine was buried from sight. At the grave the 
doctor’s grief took a demonstrative form, and he stood 
with his face covered with his hands, while his body 
shook as if from suppressed sobs, and when a low cry 
escaped Agnes as the coffin box scraped the gravelly 
earth, he put out his arm toward her as if to comfort and 
reassure her ; but she instinctively drew back, with a 
feeling of treachery in her heart, as if for the sake of the 
dead sister she ought to warn him of his danger, and give 
him a chance to escape, if it were possible, which she 
doubted ; for, though she did not know just what the plan 
was, she knew how closely the house had been watched, 
and recognized in the crowd the men whom she had seen 
on the premises, and whose office she rightly conjectured. 
But she had sworn to keep the secret, and so her lips 
were sealed, and she never uttered a word as they drove 
back to the house, where she went directly to her room, 
and on her knees begged forgiveness if she were doing a 
Wrong to the unsuspecting man, who, ill unconscious of 
peril, went also to his own room to draw what consola¬ 
tion he could from the fumes of his best cigars and the 
poison of his brandies. 

And so he was as surely doomed as if the manaclos 


THE ABBEST. 


m 

were already upon his hands, and the prison walls around 
n.m. In the hall below there was the sound of voices in 
low consultation, Everard’s voice, and Lawyer Russell’s, 
and the officers of justice, who had taken possession of 
the house and locked every door below to shut off all 
means of escape. In the kitchen the astonished and 
frightened servants were crowded together, asking each 
other what it meant and what was about to happen, but 
not one of them dared to move after the officers com¬ 
manded that they keep quiet, whatever might occur. 
Then, up the stairs came the two strange men, with 
Everard and Mr. Russell following close behind, and on 
through the hall to the door of the doctor’s room. It 
was a little ajar, and he heard their footsteps, and half 
rose to meet them as they stepped across the threshold. 
But when he saw Everard’s white, set face, and saw how 
excited Lawyer Russell seemed, there flashed over him an 
inkling of the truth, and when the foremost of the of¬ 
ficers advanced toward him, and laying his hand on his 
arm, arrested him for perjury, he felt sure that the des¬ 
perate game he had been playing had ended in disgrace 
and defeat. But he was too proud to manifest any 
emotion whatever. If his revolver had been in his pock¬ 
et, where he usually carried it, he would have used it 
jnhesitatingly, but it was not. He had no means of de¬ 
fense, and in as natural a tone of voice as he could 
command, he asked what they meant, and on what ground 
fche arrest was made ; how had he perjured himself, and 
when ? 

“ When you swore that Rossie was dead, and knew - 
that it was false, and that she was incarerated in a mad¬ 
house where you put her, you villain ! Rossie is not 
dead ; she is here in town,—at Elm Park, and all your 
infernal rasca.ity is known,” Everard burst out, for he 
could restrain himself no longer, and he felt a thrill of 
triumph when he saw how white the doctor grew, and 
how for a moment he tottered as if he would fall. 

He did not attempt to get away ; he merely said : 

“ Rossie here ? Rossie alive ? Take me to her. I 
must see her. Gentlemen, there is some mistake, which 
can be cleared up if only I can see her. I beg of you, 
take me to her.” 


TEE ARREST. 


But his request was not granted. He was a prisonei, 
and all resistance was vain. Cold and pallid, and seem¬ 
ingly indifferent, he did just what they bade him do, and 
went with them down the stairs and out of the house he 
was never to enter again. On the piazza outside they 
encountered a strange woman, who threw herself directly 
in the prisoner’s way, and shrieked into his ear : 

“ It bees you, Dr. Matthewson. I knows yon, sure, 
and I has the revenge. I finds her there in Haelder* 
Strauchsen, and sends the letter here to him (pointing to 
Everard), and the lady, Madame Morton. She comes 
and I gets her away, and you into the conciergerie ,—ha, 
ha ! What does you think now of the tragic queen ?” 
and she snapped her fingers in his face, which was deadly 
white, and livid in spots as he recoiled from her, ex¬ 
claiming : 

“ Yulah ! betrayed by you !” 

“Yes, me. I swore it. I’s glad to be revenge,” 
she cried, and was going on with more abuse when the 
officer stopped her, and hurried the doctor away to a 
place of safety, whore a close guard was placed over 
him, and he was left alone with his wretched thoughts. 

It did not take long for the news to spread over the 
town, for secrecy was no longer necessary, and never had 
there been such wild excitement in Rothsay. That Ros- 
sie Hastings had been alive all this time, and buried in 
a mad-house, while her brother enjoyed her property, 
seemed almost incredible, but there could be no doubt 
of it, for old Axie had seen her, and talked with her face 
to face, and in their fury a mob, preceded by the old 
negress, assembled in the streets, and surrounding the 
building where the doctor was confined, demanded the 
prisoner, that they might wreak vengeance on him then 
and there. 

Order was, however, soon restored, and the wretched 
man was left in quiet to think over his wicked past, and 
to dread the future, which he knew had no hope for aim. 
His sin had found him out, and though he had not con¬ 
science enough to be much troubled with remorse, his 
pride and self-love were cruelly wounded, and he writhed 
m the anguish of bitter mortification and rage. 


TELLING THE TRUTH TO R OSSIE. 88? 


CHAPTER LIV. 


TELLING THE TRUTH TO ROSSIE. 



OSSIE had asked, on her voyage home, who 
lived at the Forrest House, and had been 
simply told that Josephine was there still, 
but no mention had been made of the unnatu¬ 
ral marriage lest it should excite her too 
much. Now, however, it was desirable that she should 
know the truth, in part, at least, for her testimony would 
be necessary when the trial came on. So Everard told it 
to her a few days after the arrest, when she seemed 
stronger than usual, and able to bear it. 

She had been steadily improving since Rothsay was 
reached, though she talked but little, and was most of 
the time so absorbed in thought that she did not always 
hear when spoken to, or answer if she did. She heard, 
however, when Everard came, and recognized his step 
the moment he- touched the piazza, and her pale face 
would light up with sudden joy and her large eyes glow 
like coals of fire ; but since their first interview she had 
not suffered him to kiss her, or even to hold her hands in 
his as he sat and talked to her. Josephine living was 
a bar between them still, and Everard guessed as much, 
and told her at last that Josephine had died on the very 
night of her return to Rothsay. She was sitting in her 
easy-chair, with her head resting upon a pillow, and her 
little white, thin hands held tightly on her lap, as if 
afraid of the masculine fingers beating restlessly upon 
the arm of her chair. But when she heard of Josephine’s 
death, her hands involuntarily unlocked and crept toward 
the restless fingers, which caught and held them fast 
while Everard went on very slowly and cautiously to tell 
her the rest of the story,—the part which involved her 
brother, whose name he had not before mentioned to 
her. At first she listened breathlessly, with parted lips 
and wide-open eyes, which almost frightened him with 
their expression of wonder, and surprise, and incredulity. 







388 TELLING THE TRUTH TO ROSSIE. 


“ Everard,—Everard !” she gasped, “ you are not 
telling me the truth ? Say you are not. I would almost 
rather have died in that dreadful place than know my 
brother did this. Surely it is not true ?” 

“ Yes, true in every particular,” Everard replied, 
softening now as much as possible what he had still to 
tell of the man whose trial would come on very soon* 
and for whom there was no escape. 

“ Couldn’t you save him, Everard, if you should try ? 
Couldn’t Ido something ?” she asked. 

“No, Rossie,” he answered. “You could not save 
him, and ought not if you could. Men like him must bo 
punished,—must answer for their misdeeds, else there is 
no such thing as justice or protection for any one. You 
are not angry with me, Rossie ?” he continued, as she 
drew her hand from his and leaned back in her chair. 

“No, not angry; only it is all so very horrible, and 
brings the buzzing back, and the confusion, and I hardly 
know who I am, or who you are, or what it’s all about, 
only you must go away. I can’t hear any more,” she 
said, wearily; and after that there were days and weeks 
when she lay in bed, and scarcely moved or noticed any 
one, except Everard, whom she welcomed with her sweet 
est smile, saying to him always the same thing: 

“ I have been thinking and thinking, and praying and 
praying, and I suppose it is right, but oh ! I am so 
sorry.” 

Everard knew that her mind was dwelling upon the 
miserable man, who, when told of her condition and that 
the trial was to be delayed till she was able to give her 
testimony, had said: 

“No need of that. I don’t want Rossie dragged 
into the court to swear against me. I know more lhan 
she does; nothing can save me. I shall not put in a 
defense and he did not. 

Coldly, proudly, and apparently unmoved, he sat in 
the criminal’s seat and listened to his trial, and saw the 
looks of horror and execration cast at him, and saw 
Yulah’s face, like the face of a fiend, sneering exultingly 
at him, and heard at last his sentence of imprisonment 
with the utmost composure ; and no one who saw him on 
his way to his new home would have dreamed of the fate 


CONCLUSION. 


m 


which awaited him. Only once did he show what he felt, 
and that was when the prison dress was brought for him 
to put on. He had been very fastidious with regard to 
his personal appearance, and he flinched a little and 
turned pale for an instant, then rallying quickly he tried 
to smile and affect some pleasantry with regard to the 
unsightly garb which transformed him at once from an 
elegant man of fashion into a branded felon, with no 
mark of distinction between him and his daily compan- 
ions. 


CHAPTER LV. 

CONCLUSION. 

FTER the trial was over, and the doctor safely 
lodged in prison to serve out his length of 
time, Rothsay gradually grew quiet and 
ceased to talk of the startling events which 
had thrown the town into such commo¬ 
tion. They were getting accustomed to the fact that 
Rossie was alive and with them again. She had ap¬ 
peared in the streets with Beatrice two or three times, 
and many of her old friends had been admitted to see 
her, but she was still very weak in body and mind, and 
was kept as quiet as possible. Beatrice had made a short 
visit with her husband to Boston, but had returned 
again to her own home, bringing Trix and Bunchie with 
her, hoping the effect on Rossie might be good. And it 
was, for from the moment the children came and turned 
the orderly house upside down with their play and prat¬ 
tle, she began to improve and seem much like the Rossie 
of old, except that her face and figure were thinner and 
there were no roses on her cheeks, and there was always 
a tired look in her eyes and about her mouth. Of her 
brother she never spoke, nor of Josephine either ; neither 
had she ever been near the Forrest House, which, with¬ 
out her knowledge, had gradually been undergoing a 







390 


CONCLUSION. 


transformation, preparatory to the time when she should 
be equal to visit it. Both Everard and Beatrice, with 
Aunt Axie to assist them, had been busy as bees, remov¬ 
ing from the house every article of furniture which 
either the doctor or Josephine had bought, and replacing 
it with the old, familiar things of Rossie’s childhood. 

When the doctor refurnished the house he had 
ordered all the rubbish, as he called it, to be stored 
away in the attics and unused rooms, where it had lain 
untouched save as dust and cobwebs had accumulated 
on it, and thus it was comparatively easy for the rooms 
to assume their natural appearance, except so far as they 
had been changed by new windows and doors, and par¬ 
titions thrown down to make them more commodious. 
Could Axie have had her way, she would have put every¬ 
thing back as it was, and not have left a vestige of the 
past, but Everard had the good sense to see that the 
changes were such as both he and Rossie would like 
when accustomed to them. He put himself with Rossie, 
for he knew he should live there with her, although 
nothing definite was settled by word of mouth. He had 
a plan which he meant to carry out, and when the house 
was restored to itself, and the same old carpets were on. 
the floor, and the same old pictures on the wall, and the 
chairs in his father’s room standing just as they stood 
that day when Rossie came to him so fearlessly and 
asked to be his wife, he went to her and said she was to 
ride with him that morning, as there was something he 
wished to show her. She assented readily, and was soon 
beside him in Beatrice’s phaeton, driving toward the 
Forrest House grounds, into which he suddenly turned. 

“ Oh, Everard,” she cried, as her cheek flushed scarlet, 
“ where are you going ? Not there ? I cannot bear it 
yet It will bring the buzzing back, and all the uncer¬ 
tainty. Don’t go, please. It’s like a haunted place.” 

But Everard was firm, and quieted her as well as he 
could, and pointed out Aunt Axie standing in the door 
just as she used to stand waiting for her young mistress, 
and John farther on in the stable-yard, and even the old 
dogs barking in the early sunshine, and running to meet 
them as they came up. It did not seem strange noi 
haunted now, and Rossie made no resistance when 


CONCLUSION. 


391 


Everard lifted her from the phaeton and carried ner into 
the house, wh.ch seemed so restful and home-like that 
she felt all her old morbid feelings and fears dropping 
from her, and flitted from room to room like some joy¬ 
ous bird, until she came to the judge’s chamber, where 
she paused a moment on the threshold, while there flashed 
upon her a remembrance of that day which seemed so 
long ago, when she had entertained it so fearlessly, and 
done that for which she always blushed when she re¬ 
called it. Passing his arm around her Everard drew her 
into the room, and closing the door made her sit down 
beside him, while he said, “ Rossie, you surely have not 
forgotten a scene which took place here more than six 
years ago, when a miserable, sorely-tried young man sat 
here a beggar, with a secret on his mind far worse and 
harder to bear than prospective poverty. And while he 
sat thinking of the future, and shrinking from it with a 
dread of which you cannot conceive, there came to him a 
little sweet-faced girl, who, in her desire to comfort him 
and give back what she believed to be his, asked to 
be his wife, without a thought of shame. No, Rossie, 
don’t try to get away from me, for you cannot. I shall 
keep you now, forever,” he continued, as Rossie tried to 
free herself from the arm which only held her closer, 
as Everard went on : “ In one sense that time seems to 
me ages and ages ago, so much has happened since, 
while in another it seems but yesterday, so distinctly do I 
recall every incident and detail, even to the dress and 
apron you wore, and the expression of your face as it 
changed from perfect unconsciousness to a sense of what 
you had done. You came to me a child, but you left me 
a woman, whom I do believe I would even then have 
taken to my heart but for the bar between us. That bar 
is now removed, and Rossie, my darling, I have brought 
you here to the old home, and into the very room, to 
answer Jhe question you asked me then, that is, if you 
are still of the same mind. Are you, Rossie ? Do you 
still wish to be my wife ?” 

He had her face between his two hands, and was 
looking into her eyes, which filled with tears as she said 
to him : “ Oh, Everard, yes, yes. I have wished it so 
much when it was wicked to do so, and now that it is 


802 


CONCLUSION 


not, I wish it still ; only i am afraid I must not, for there 
is such a horrible fear before me all the time which I can¬ 
not shake olf. Day and night it haunts me, that I am 
not aii light in my brain. 1 saw so much and suffered 
bo much that I can’t put things together quite straight, 
and my head buzzes at times, and I do not remember, 
and am even troubled to know just who I am and what 
has happened. Oh, do you think, do jou suppose I am 

going to be a,-a,-” She hesitated, and her lips 

quivered pitifully as she finally pronounced the dreadful 
word,—“ fool.” 

Everard’s laugh was something pleasant and good tc 
hear, it was so long and loud. 

“Fool, Rossie. No. You are only tired out and 
must have the perfect rest which you can find alone with 
me,” he said,and he covered her face with kisses. “And 
were you ten times a fool, I want you just the same. 
And you are mine, my own precious little Rossie who 
will be my wife very soon. There is no need for delay, 

1 want you and you need me, and Beatrice ought to go 
to her husband, which she will not do while she think? 
you need her care. So it will be within two weeks at 
the farthest. You need no preparation, just to come 
home,—though we will go away farther South for a 
while, where the season is earlier and where the roses will 
soon come back to these pale cheeks and vigor to the 
poor, tired brain.” 

Rossie let him arrange it all as he pleased, and the 
wedding took place two weeks from that day in Bea¬ 
trice’s drawing-room, without parade or show, for both 
bride and groom had suffered too much to care for 
publicity now; but both were perfectly happy, and 
Rossie’s face was sweet and beautiful as are the faces of 
Murillo’s Madonnas, as she lifted it for her husband’s first 
kiss, and heard him say, “ My wife at last, thank God.” 

There was a trip southward as far as the mountains 
of Tennessee, where, in a lovely, secluded spot Rossie 
gained so rapidly both in body and mind, that the second 
week in May was fixed upon for their return to the For¬ 
rest House, where Aunt Axie again reigned supreme, and 
where Agnes had found a haven of rest at last. Bea¬ 
trice, who had gone with Trix and Bunchie to Boston, 




CONCLUSION. 


898 

had offered Agnes a home with her as nursery governess 
to the children, but Rossie had said to her first, “ If you 
can, Aggie, I wish you would live with me. It will make 
me happier to have you at the Forrest House,” and so 
Agnes went to the Forrest House, and was there to meet 
the newly-married couple, when they came back one 
lovely afternoon in May to take possession of their old 
house, amid the pealing of bells and the rejoicings of the 
people, who had assembled in crowds upon the lawn in 
front of the house, where Everard’s most intimate ac 
quaintances had arranged a grand picnic, to which all 
who were his friends and wished to do him honor were 
publicly invited. It would seem as if everybody was his 
friend or Rossie’s, for the whole town was out, filling 
the grounds, which were beautifully decorated, while 
over the gateway a lovely arch of flowers was erected 
with the inscription on it, “ Welcome to the rightful 
heirs.” 

And so, amid the ringing of bells and the huzzas of 
the crowd, and strains of sweet music as the Rothsay 
band played a merry strain, Everard and Rossie drove 
up the avenue and passed into the house where they had 
known so much joy and sorrow both, and which here¬ 
after was to be to them an abode of perfect peace and 
happiness. 

There was a dance upon the lawn that night, after 
the hundreds of lamps and lanterns were lighted, and 
people came from afar to see the sight, which equaled 
the outdoor fetes of the Champs d’JSlysees, and were con¬ 
tinued until the village clock chimed twelve, when, with 
hearty handshakes and three cheers for Mr. and Mrs. 
Forrest, the crowd departed to their respective homes, 
and peace and quiet reigned again at the Forrest House. 

And now, there is little more to tell of the characters 
with whom my readers have grown familiar. 

Dr. Morton is still in Boston, and perfectly happy 
with Beatrice, who is the best of wives and step-mothers, 
idolized by husband and little ones, and greatly honored 

the people, notwithstanding that she sometimes 
startles them with her independent way of acting and 
thinking. 

ITulah is at the Forrest House in the capacity of wait- 


894 


CONCLUSION. 


ing->maid, and no one looking at her usually j lacid Ger¬ 
man face would dream of the terrible expression it can 
assume if but the slightest allusion is made to the 
wretched man who in his felon’s cell drags out his mis¬ 
erable days, with no hope of the future, and nothing but 
horror and remorse in his retrospect of the past. Once 
or twice he has written to Rossie, asking her forgiveness, 
and begging her to use her influence to shorten his term 
of imprisonment. But Rossie is powerless there, and 
can only weep over her fallen brother, whose punishment 
she knows is just, and who is but reaping what he sowed 
so bountifully. 

In course of time Everard heard from Michel Fahen 
of the excitement caused by Rossie’s escape, of the 
means taken at first to trace her, and of the indignation 
of the people, and the invectives heaped upon Van 
Schoisner when Michel told, as he was finally compelled 
to do, what he knew of Rossie’s unjust detention as a 
lunatic. It is more than six months now since Rossie 
came home a bride, and in that time no cloud, however 
small, has darkened her domestic horizon or brought a 
shadow to her face. The house has been refurnished 
from garret to cellar, and is seldom without guests, both 
from city and country, while the village people are never 
tired of taking their friends to see the beautiful grounds, 
of which they are so proud, and to call upon the fair young 
matron, on whom the duties of wifehood sit so prettily, 
and who is as sweet and innocent as in the days when 
she wore her white sun-bonnet, and was known as Little 
Rossie Hastings. 


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bined, have reached a sale of over 240,000 copies. “ Out for the 
Coin” is another “Crackerjack Volume of Comedy” in which 
John Henry and his delightful friends find a new field for their 
stirring and amusing adventures. Illustrated from drawings by 
Gordon Grant. Cloth, gilt top, 75 cents. 


A COIN OP EDWARD VII 


By Fergus Hume. The Nashville American says: “It has an 
attraction that borders on fascination. This story is in Fergus 
Hume s best style, and is particularly noted for the ingenuity 
of its construction and skill of working out details.’’ 12mo, cloth 
bound, $1.25. 


A SPECKLED BIRD. (Fourth Edition) 

By Augusta Evans Wilson. 125th thousand. “It is a piece of 
work far better than many of the ‘best selling novels’ of recent 
seasons. Mrs. Wilson proves that she is a vigorous and able 
veteran of letters, and it will be welcomed by all the quondam 
admirers of ‘St. Elmo.’ They are legion.”—Eleanor M. Hoyt, 
in The Book Buyer. 

“Far above the average work of fiction.”— Louisville Courier 
Journal. 

“How absolutely sweet and clean and wholesome is the atmos¬ 
phere of the story: It could not be anything else and come 
from her pen.”— Brooklyn Eagle. 12mo, cloth bound, $1.50. 

THE CROMPTONS. (Fourth Edition) 

By Mary J. Holmes. “ Whoever open the pages of ‘ The Cromp¬ 
tons ’ will find in it the elements which have made popular this 
author’s thirty odd stories and carried her name, a household 
word, to millions of readers.” Nashville American. 

“ Her novels circulate by the hundreds of thousands, and her name 
is conjured with where the literary aristocrats are never heard 
of.”— Rochester Herald. Handsomely bound in cloth, $1.00. 


THE KISS OF GLORY. (Third Edition) 

By Grace Duffie Boylan. A narrative of the life of Joseph, the son 
of Jacob. His captivity, release and love life. 

One of the greatest stories in all literature, wholly human in the 
elemental passions exhibited. It is a powerful portrayal. Mrs. 
Boylan has been fortunate in imagining a passion in entire keep¬ 
ing with the oriental surroundings which give the book as a whole 
its fine exotic flavor.”— Chicago American. 

Illustrations, cover design and poster by J. C. Leyendecker. Hand¬ 
somely bound in cloth, 12mo, $1.50. 


THE DAY OF PROSPERITY, a Vision of the Century 
to Come 

By Paul Devinne. A vivid, startling and original picture of a re¬ 
constructed world, a novel with an ingenious plot, and a spark¬ 
ling and fantastic story of life in the year 2000. A solution of 
to-day’s most mooted problems; differing from Bellamy and 
kindred thinkers, though following somewhat similar lines. A 
very engrossing novel, with humanly sympathetic characters, 
Cloth bound, $1.50. 


NORMAN HOLT, a Story of the Army of the Cumber¬ 
land 

By General (Capt.) Charles King. “No more charming historic 
war story has ever been written. It is Captain King’s best, and 
bearing, as it does, on the great battle of Mission Ridge, although 
the story is woven in fiction, it adds an invaluable record of that 
gigantic contest between the two great armies. 

“ The pharacters are real, their emotions natural, and the romance 
that is interwoven is delightful. It is wholesome and one of 
General King’s best, if not his best, book.”— N. Y. Journal. 

u From the first chapter to the last page the interest of the reader 
never fags. General King has written no more brilliant or stir¬ 
ring novel than 1 Norman Holt.’”— N. Y. Press. Illustrated, 
cloth bound, $1.25. 

THE IRON BRIGADE, a Story of the Army of the 
Potomac. (Fourth Edition) 

By General Charles King. Illustrations by R. F. Zogbaum. In 
choosing the subject of this story General King has taken one of 
the most gallant and heroic organizations of the Civil War, and 
woven around it many intensely interesting historic scends. 
Sketches of Lincoln, Stanton, Grant, Meade and other prominent 
characters of the time lend much to the holding power of the 
story. Illustrated. Cloth bound, $1.50. 

DENSLOW’S NIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS. (30th 
Thousand) 

The old classic story, illustrated by W. W. Denslow. Here is the 
best Christmas story ever told. The man is yet to be born who 
can write anything to supersede what has made St. Nicholas and 
his tiny reindeer living and breathing realities to millions of 
children throughout the world. 

Embellished, as it is, with the whimsical humor of Mr. Denslow’s 
inimitable drawings, produced in colors by the most beautiful 
printing, it will eclipse all other juvenile picture books of the 
year. A large quarto, handsomely bound in cloth or illumin¬ 
ated board cover, $1.50. 

DENSLOW’S ONE RING CIRCUS, and Other Stories, 
containing: 

One Ring Circus, 5 Little Pigs, ABC Book, 

Zoo, Tom Thumb, Jack and the Bean-stalk. 

The six bound in cloth, decorative cover, $1.25. 

DENSLOW’S HUMPTY DUMPTY, and Other Stories, 
containing: 

Humpty Dumpty Mary had a Little Lamb 

Little Red Riding Hood Old Mother Hubbard 
The Three Bears House that Jack Built 

The six bound in cloth, decorative cover, $1.25. 


MR. SHARPTOOTH, a juvenile Story of A Bad Wolf 
and A Good Boy 

By Joe. Kerr. With 64 pages of beautiful, four-color pictures 
from drawings by Robert H. Porteous. 

A most charming and attractive juvenile picture book. The story 
itself is unique in conception, the drawings are beautiful in de¬ 
sign, and are both humorous and pathetic. First edition, 10,000 
copies. Quarto, cloth cover, price, SI.25. 

ECCENTRICITIES OF GENIUS, Memories of Famous 
Men and Women of the Platform and Stage 

By Major J. B. Pond. These biographical sketches of notable 
Orators, Preachers, and Lecturers, descriptive of the personal 
traits of character of the many noted persons who have publicly 
appeared under the management of Major Pond, are thrillingly 
and forcibly told. A magnificent octavo volume containing 
nearly one hundred half-tone portrait illustrations. Cloth 
bound, S3.50. 

UNDER A LUCKY STAR, a New Book on Astrology 

By Charlotte Abell Walker. Tells what occupation to adopt, and 
what line of life to follow, what associates and partners to choose, 
how to recognize the possibilities and limitations of our friends 
and ourselves, and of other important matters to human life, 
including suggestions on marriage, being mainly culled from the 
minds of ancient and modern philosophers. Illustrated, cloth 
bound, $1.50. 

TRUE DETECTIVE STORIES 

From the Pinkerton Archives. By Cleveland Moffett. The ab¬ 
sorbing stories told here by Mr. Moffet are statements of actual 
facts repeated without exaggeration or false coloring. The 
author, by the help of the Pinkerton Agency, has given the inside 
history of famous cases which the general public only know of 
through newspaper accounts. Cloth bound, 75 cents. 

THE COMPLETE WORKS OF ARTEMUS WARD 

By Charles Farrar Browne. With a biographical sketch of the 
author by Melville D. Landon. The present edition is of a work 
which has been for more than thirty years prominently before 
the public, and which may be justly said to have maintained 
a standard character. It is issued because of a demand for a 
better edition than has ever been published. 

In order to supply this acknowledged want, the publishers have 
enlarged and perfected this edition by adding some matter not 
heretofore published in book form. 

A large 12mo, printed from new electro plates, with 28 full-page 
illustrations, and photogravure portrait of the author, hand¬ 
somely bound in cloth, gilt top, $2.00. 


THE ADVENTURES OF CAPTAIN KETTLE 


By Cutcliffe Hyne. The best sea story since the days of Marryat. 
Captain Kettle is a devil-may-care sea dog, half pirate and half 
preacher. The author carries him through many hairbreadth 
escapes and makes him a character that will live long in the 
annals of fiction. The success of this book is marvelous. Over 
80,000 copies have been sold. Illustrated. Cloth bound, $1.50. 


A MASTER OF FORTUNE, Being Further Adventures 
of “ Captain Kettle” 


By Cutcliffe Hyne. “ It has the dash and tinge, of reality that 
makes you feel as if you were in the midst of it all.” Detroit 
Free Press. 

“The many readers who followed with bated breath the wild ad¬ 
ventures of Captain Kettle in the book named for him, will 
welcome Cutcliffe Hyne’s new collection of tales dealing with 
that remarkable sea dog. The volume is well called ‘ A Master 
of Fortune .’”—Philadelphia Press. 

“ Nobody who has followed the gallant sailor—diminutive, but oh, 
my !—in his previous adventures around the earth, is going to 
mi ss this red-hot volume of marvelous exploits.”— N. Y. World. 
Illustrated. Cloth bound, $1.50. 


THE TWENTIETH CENTURY COOK BOOK 


By Mrs. C. F. Moritz and Adele Kahn. A modern and complete 
household cook book such as this is, since cooking has come to be 
a science no less than an art, must find a welcome and become the 
most popular cook book of all the many now published. 

“ It can hardly be realized that there is anything worth eating that 
its receipt cannot be found in this volume. This volume has 
been carefully compiled and contains not only the receipts for an 
elaborate menu, but also the modest ones have been considered.” 
Book and Newsdealer. Bound in oil cloth, for kitchen use, $1.50. 

HIS FRIEND THE ENEMY 

By Wm. Wallace Cook. Author of “Rogers of Butte,” “Little 
Miss Vassar,” etc. 

The Detroit Free Press says: “ It gives a graphic story built round 
one of the ‘ county-seat wars ’ that have been actual occurrences 
in the development of the West. The story is well furnished 
with incident, moves with a rush, and gives a vivid idea of some 
lively times out in the Territories.” Cloth bound. Illustrated, 



THE PAGAN’S CUP 


By Fergus Hume, author of “The Mystery of a Hanson Cab,” 
etc. This is a thrilling detective story, in which the interest 
and mystery is well sustained. Cloth bound, $1.25. 












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